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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
- 2
- 3
- 4
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: Again; thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! I am truly touched by the overwhelming support I have received from each and every one of you. I am so appreciative you have stuck around through the alternate perspectives – I recognized that was indeed a fairly risky thing to do – and I hope you continue enjoying the story. Who knew a persistent thought (and stubborn refusal to believe Severus Snape would just die) could receive such an overwhelmingly wonderful reaction? Again, thank you all very much.

Potions, Plans, and Second Chances

K. Marie

Chapter 3

Hermione quietly closed the door of Snape's room, a heavy sigh escaping her as she leaned her weight against its sturdy support. Her hands smoothed over the cool, flat surface, and she breathed in deep, drinking in the stale, sterile hospital air. Her breast swelled as she sucked in as much oxygen that her lungs could contain, and then she released the hefty breath, the smell of coffee lingering in the air before her.

Combing her slender fingers through her hair, the ring on her finger caught in a tangle and tugged painfully at her scalp. She flinched, pulling her hand from the mass of hair, a few strands wrapped around the tiny gemstone of the engagement ring. Twisting the band around her finger, Hermione rested her head against the door, staring up at the ceiling, the only sound in the hallway her soft breaths.

Despite her own distress – the fact that her world, as she had known it, was dramatically altered and she wasn't sure if it was for better or worse – she had a responsibility to tend to the rest of her patients, all the while simultaneously providing Severus Snape private, completely solitary care. She eased herself onto her feet, casting a final glance over her shoulder at the solid white door to his room.

She forced her thoughts, her emotions – her questions – into a tiny corner of her mind to be dealt with much later. Perhaps he would entertain the idea of relaying his story to her; how he survived, where he had been the past six years, what earned him the injuries that kept him there. But for now, she knew she had a job to do, and she breathed in deep, steeling herself for the impossibly long day ahead of her.

Descending the stairs to her usual floor, Hermione found Gwen behind the nurse's station, sorting the folders of patients that had just been admitted to the hospital. As Hermione approached the station, the young nurse combed a stray strand of fiery hair behind her ear before pushing a tidy stack of charts into Hermione's arms.

"Rooms A-2, A-4, and A-10, Hermione," Gwen said before returning to her task. She hadn't even looked at Hermione, but familiar with the nurse's mannerisms, she disregarded it. An apprentice was at her elbow, hurriedly transcribing her notes into an open chart; he offered Hermione a pleasant smile, but it was brief, and he returned to his task of hurriedly scrawling notes with his quill.

"Gwen," Hermione said, having not forgotten the promise she made to her patient upstairs. The nurse looked up from her documentation, an annoyed glare burning in the depths of her icy eyes. She was not the most pleasant of witches to work with, and Hermione always tried to keep their conversations short. "Please see to it that a meal is brought to the John Smith in the isolation ward."

"Of course," Gwen replied shortly. "Anything specific?"

Hermione couldn't help the small smile that parted her lips as she thought of his response to her similar inquiry. Doubting Gwen would find any humor in the situation but feeling too mischievous to abandon the opportunity, Hermione replied with a sardonic tone: "Something edible."

The nurse-witch released an annoyed grunt and turned from the counter to prepare a request to the cafeteria for a meal. Hermione thought Snape would approve when his meal suddenly appeared at his bedside, further limiting his exposure to other witches and wizards at the hospital. The method of communication in the hospital was similar to that of the Ministry; if a message needed immediate conveying, a simple charm need be cast on a sheet of parchment folded neatly within a specific envelope; the letter then would fly itself to its recipient. Hermione had found the mode of communication rather clever and endearing, and had, on many occasions, been tempted to abuse it.

Hermione absently thanked the nurse-witch and moved into her office. Setting the folders onto her desk, she lowered herself into her chair. Drawing her fingers through her hair, Hermione quickly braided the mass of curls into a neat plait down her neck, securing it with a lime green ribbon. The coffee she had brewed earlier was cold, and she cursed the waste; but there was nothing to be done for it – she absolutely hated the taste of reheated coffee, regardless of its method of heating. Sipping from the cool mug, she peered at the open folder of the patient in room A-2, a young school-aged girl named Natalie Brown. She had been transferred from Hogwarts to St. Mungo's with a severely fractured pelvis, and as Hermione continued reviewing the admission notes, she smiled despite herself. A Quidditch accident.

As she stood from her chair, the chart folded against her chest, she set the mug on her desk and swept in the direction of the patient's room. Hermione held Hogwarts' resident medi-witch in very high esteem; Poppy Pomfrey was partially responsible for Hermione's current success. During Hermione's time in university, Poppy Pomfrey opened a year-long apprenticeship position for the Healer-in-training; for her second year at school, Hermione was enrolled in the apprenticeship, and the experience certainly bolstered her reputation among the officials at the hospital. Between her experience at Hogwarts and the time she spent beneath the feet of the Healers at St. Mungo's during Ron's admission, she had garnered herself remarkable notoriety, and it helped her greatly.

As it was, Hermione was notably more skilled than Poppy – and to the surprise of no one. A pelvic fracture, a considerably serious injury in the Muggle world, was in all actuality fairly harmless for a Healer as capable as Hermione was. She wasn't surprised that the young witch was transported to the hospital, given Poppy's vigilance and prudence – she was not one to risk the health and well-being of a student lightly, and if she so much as suspected a wound beyond her skill, she would move the student to St. Mungo's for care.

Rapping her knuckles lightly against the door, Hermione waited a brief moment before cracking open the door. She was greeted immediately by a heated argument between an older man and woman, flanking either side of the hospital bed. The young girl assigned to Hermione's care sat against the headboard of the bed, and as soon as she noticed Hermione, she offered the woman an apologetic glance.

The adults – presumably Natalie's parents – were apparently quarreling over her care at the hospital. Opening the folder in her hands, Hermione scanned the admission file; it came to her attention that Natalie was a Muggleborn, and her parents' unrest was most likely due to their unfamiliarity with wizarding medicine. Normally, such a distinction wouldn't be necessary, but with anxious parents, a wise Healer always ensured familiarity with wizarding medicine.

Either way, the adults continued arguing, the volume of their voices continuing to amplify with each passing second. Clearing her throat, Hermione hoped to politely interrupt them, but to no avail; she may as well have not even been in the room. Judging by the intonation of their voices, Hermione suspected they had divorced ages ago.

"Good morning," Hermione interrupted, forcing pleasantness into her voice despite her need to raise her voice to be heard over their shouts.

Natalie's parents finally turned their attention to the younger witch, standing in her lime green Healer robes. The woman's face flushed as she acknowledged her audience, but the man's anger did not seem to abate at her presence. He crossed his arms over his chest, his brown eyes fixed in an angry glare at the intruding witch.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she began. "I'm the Healer overseeing Natalie's care today."

"How old are you?" the man hissed, rounding the bed to stand before her. He was significantly taller than Hermione, and she was forced to lift her chin to look into his eyes, but he failed to intimidate her.

"Twenty-four," Hermione replied. "I understand you are Muggles, so I must seem awfully young to be responsible for your daughter's care. But I can assure you, I am more than qualified to mend her fractured pelvis."

Hermione had grown accustomed to irate parents; it was simply involved in the care of the ill. Children were often times awkward, elephantine, and prone to injury, and while parents often worried about their child's care in the hands of a Healer so young, Hermione was usually able to ease their concerns. If she was unable to dismiss their fears ("But you can't possibly know what you're doing, you don't look a day over eighteen!" "Have you even graduated from Hogwarts?"), she typically silenced them with her agile wristwork, mending severe scrapes, healing ghastly burns, and setting shattered bones; all within minutes, and without much exertion. And the child was on their way.

This situation would be no different, and as she sat discussing the treatment plan with the worried parents – her parents were entirely unfamiliar with the ways of wizarding medicine (and that treatment plans were typically unnecessary) – she leaned over Natalie, administering the medication that would aid in the mending of her pelvis before silently casting the healing charm. With a loud crack, the girl cried out in agony – and her parents reacted with fury and surprise – and the bones were set. All amidst an unnecessary (however expected) conversation with them, debating Hermione's credentials and capability to handle the injury adequately.

Of course, Natalie's father began demanding answers why his daughter was clutching at her hip, sobbing hysterically. Hermione, while administering an analgesic to lessen the girl's pain, explained the process of setting bones in the wizarding world: casts were often unnecessary, as there was a specific tincture developed for setting bones and strengthening the calcification that would form over the mended fracture. Resting would, however, be required to ensure complete healing, but often times even the amount of time that was necessary for inactivity was significantly shorter than in Muggle medicine. The only disadvantage, then, was the excruciating burst of pain the patient endured, but it was fleeting and manageable.

As she bid Natalie good afternoon and offered her a cheerful "Good luck" when returning to the Quidditch pitch in a week, Hermione vacated the room with a feeling of gratification swelling her chest. Even though she knew she was the best Healer the hospital staffed, it was never a hindrance to her ego when she left the doubtful family of her patients in awe.

The rest of her morning, fortunately, involved two adult wizards; adults of her own world (Hermione had truly ceased relating to the Muggle world once she had embarked on their quest to hunt horcruxes) were much easier to work with. They tended to be less inquisitive and more confident in Hermione's skill to tend to their injuries.

As midday approached, Hermione was strangely inspired to take her lunch to Snape's room, if only to provide the saturnine man company – without performing medical procedures. She wasn't certain what such an inclination would gain her or whether he would even welcome the idea in the first place; but having spent the majority of his first two days at the hospital in isolation, she was compelled to provide him a visitor.

Descending the long, twirling staircase to the cafeteria, Hermione tugged her fingers through her messy braid, curls of hair having come loose throughout the morning. Turning her back to the entrance doors to the dining hall, she used her rear to push open the door while simultaneously tying her hair into a tight, neat knot at the back of her head. The mingling scent of various meats, vegetables, and baked goods greeted her nostrils, and her stomach reacted; churning and clenching painfully, Hermione sheepishly recalled missing breakfast.

A house elf behind the counter scrambled onto a stack of cookbooks to greet Hermione; she was one of the first patrons of the cafeteria, lunch hour having just begun, but she knew the cortege of hungry hospital workers and visitors would soon follow. The elf, his raggedy dish cloth hanging loosely around his hips like a loin cloth, leaned an ear towards Hermione to hear her order.

Looking at the menu behind the counter, animated photographs of each meal special were charmed to sizzle, drip, and steam accordingly. Touching her forefinger to her chin thoughtfully, Hermione considered her options – she hadn't the slightest idea what Severus Snape preferred to eat, but her maternal instinct, no doubt inspired by a certain Weasley matriarch, dominated her practicality and she was suddenly tempted to bring an entire buffet to his room in order to flesh out his form.

Filing her order with the little elf behind the counter and the room which to send it, Hermione turned on her heel and abandoned the cafeteria before the stampede of hungry patrons arrived. Climbing the stairs, her hand cupping her flat abdomen, her stomach growled and churned within, anxious for its first full meal of the day.

It didn't occur to her until she reached the solid white door of Severus Snape's room that he may very much prefer the quiet solitude of his isolation room. Feeling suddenly weary of his austere personality, she nearly changed her mind; the painful churning of her empty stomach, however, steeled her nerves and she gently knocked on the door, a quiet announcement to her entrance.

"I hope you're hungry," Hermione offered as she closed the door behind her, the patient concealed behind the privacy curtain. "And I hope you don't mind company for your lunch. I have to administer your midday potions, but then I'm on my lunch break."

As she rounded the curtain, he became visible to her. The head of his bed was elevated and as he sat in his bed, the newspaper she provided him that morning was opened in his lap. His fingertips were black from ink, and as he looked up at her with an acknowledging nod, she noticed an inky darkness surrounding his eye. She stifled a quiet laugh.

Summoning a cloth from the bathroom, Hermione moistened it with warm water in the basin on his table. Snape eyed her suspiciously as she leaned down to him, gently rubbing the ink stain from his skin. She held the stained cloth for him to see, and his lip curled in a sneer before returning to the newspaper.

"Are there any magazines you subscribe to? I can have the issues forwarded here for the time being," Hermione suggested as she foraged through the medicine cabinet for his prescribed potions. "There's an owlery on the top floor of the hospital."

He released a thoughtful groan, his dark eyes still scanning the newspaper absently. As he turned the page, the rustle of paper violated the silence in the room, and as though he seemed weary of rereading the same words once more, he finally folded the paper and set it on his bedside table. Hermione cast a glance over her shoulder as she prepared his analgesic.

"Is that a 'yes,' then?" she asked, a hidden smile crossing her features.

Turning towards him, her green robes whispering against her body, Hermione held a goblet in her hands. As she leaned into him, her hands guiding the goblet to his lips, the stale scent of his body – not dissimilar to the smell of the dying, which she found alarming – invaded her senses. The grimace that twisted her features was not lost on him, and he frowned.

"Never you mind that, Sev," Hermione said quietly, turning to the table and retrieving the small ampoule she had set there earlier in the morning. "This is going to feel like the worst cramping you've ever endured, but it's fleeting and will leave you quite famished."

Lifting the small vial to his lips, Severus swallowed the thick potion, grimacing as the solution slid down his throat. Hermione lowered herself into the chair, extending her hand to his supportively. For a moment, he simply stared at her, an odd expression crossing his features; as soon as the first wave of agony struck him, though, he grabbed hold of her hand, his strong grasp crushing her hand, as though the pain he was enduring would be less if she experienced it with him. He curled onto his side, tucking his face into his knees as his entire body contracted with such force he feared he would tear in two. A tiny groan escaped him as the strictures worsened, his grip on Hermione's hand ever tightening. She too, winced in pain, his strength causing her to writhe from her chair, nearly collapsing on the floor.

Once his pain subsided, the force with which he squeezed her hand weakened. Hermione pulled herself to her feet, resting on her heels as she peered over the edge of his bed, her chin supported by the soft mattress. He slowly elongated his form, stretching his long legs and tipping his chin to look at her, an apologetic grimace plaguing his features as he glanced to her small hand in his. She slipped her slender fingers from his grasp, sinking into the chair once more.

"It's quite all right. Now that you've endured that, the bone fragments that embedded in your other organs should begin dissolving and the wounds healing," she offered kindly, kneading her sore hand with her uninjured fingers. "Patients tend to feel as though inflicting pain helps lessen their own experience some, and I, for one, will not rob them of that. I understand, from my discussions with some older women I've administered that potion to, the pain associated with it is worse than labor."

He nodded, as though agreeing, and turned onto his back. In a quiet pop!, a small, narrow table of food appeared at the foot of the bed, startling the room's inhabitants. The smell of chicken permeated the room, and Hermione rose from the chair to retrieve one of the trays.

"I didn't know what you preferred to eat," she said softly, setting the tray across his lap and handing him eating utensils. "But I thought chicken was a safe start."

He hesitated before addressing the chicken breast on his plate, but after casting a glance at his Healer, he ravenously began carving. Hermione lifted the second tray and lowered herself into the chair once more, the platter resting against her thighs. His greedy devouring pleased her; his emaciated form had been distressing to Hermione, and as long as he was in the hospital she could ensure he received decent nutrition.

Picking at her own piece of chicken, Hermione cautiously eased into conversation. "Do you know where your wand is?" She lifted her eyes subtly as she spoke, peering at him. He seemed to hesitate before answering, his jaw grinding away at the bite he placed in his mouth as she spoke.

"No," he replied, his voice acerbic. He broke apart a biscuit in his tremulous hands, eyeing her carefully.

She realized with sudden dismay that despite his returning strength – and while he was still admittedly very weak, he was in much better condition than a day previous – it would be incredibly painful to draw conversation out of him. She had suspected from the moment she recognized him that he would be a trying patient, but Hermione Jean Granger was nothing if not ambitious – and she enjoyed a challenge.

"Is there any chance you'll enlighten me on what brought you to the hospital?" she asked, a slightly disinterested tone forced into her voice. She didn't look at him as she spoke; her eyes were fixed on her plate, and she casually diced apart a piece of carrot.

If he heard her, she wouldn't have known; he didn't even falter in his emphatic eating. He nearly shoveled the food into his mouth, and Hermione was woefully reminded of her fiancé; the only difference – that she could identify, anyway – was that it seemed unlikely that the man before her had the fortune of decent meals in a long while. Her eyes moved over his waifish form: his high cheekbones, which were always prominent throughout her schooling, now pressed through his face as though the flesh weren't even there; his skin was drawn, pallid and thin, over the bony, angular prominence of his sharp collarbones; the pulse coursing through his neck – right beneath the chilling scar from a puncture wound that should have claimed his life – shook the thin skin of his throat, and Hermione could see the subtle, quiet tremor as his heart pumped blood through his body. She made sure to acquire larger meals for him in the future, at least for the time being.

"It is… quite unlikely," he growled, his chest heaving with hungry breaths as he spoke. "It does not… concern you."

"On the contrary," Hermione countered. "You are my patient, and if there is a bounty on your head, I should know about it. I can keep you safe."

A rough, chilling sound escaped the sallow man, startling Hermione into action before she realized it was a laugh. With a goblet in her hand, Hermione had nearly knocked the tray of food from her lap; Snape's skeletal hand brushed her off, a dismissing wave, and he cleared his throat.

"Forgive me," he growled, a sibilant intonation haunting his raspy voice. "You… exaggerate your skill, Ms. Granger…"

"I beg to differ—"

"On the contrary," he mocked, his raspy breath barely managing its former oily resonation. "What events brought me here… you cannot even begin to… comprehend." Reaching for her hand, he wrapped his long fingers around the mouth of the goblet, drawing it to his mouth. He drank the icy water greedily, releasing a heavy sigh.

"You seem to forget what I witnessed before I even graduated Hogwarts," she replied, acrimoniously. "Harry may have been the one to defeat Voldemort, but I was invaluable to his success."

Her amber eyes narrowed as she studied his sallow features, her eyes tracing the angles of his countenance; the protuberant hook of his nose, the sharp edge of his jaw. He was in desperate need of a razor, the rough growth of a beard beginning to emphasize the already exaggerated prominence of his cheekbones as it blanketed his cheeks and throat.

"How honest you are," he replied coldly, his dark gaze flickering over her face. "However brilliant… you may be – and even I… cannot deny such – you have never learned… when to mind your own business."

He brought another piece of biscuit to his mouth, chewing it carefully as he studied her features. A faint wrinkle pressed itself into her forehead as she furrowed her brow, her fork stabbing absently at the diced carrot on her plate. Even though he was ashen and frail, he managed a sickeningly snide sneer, his thin, pallid lip curling. Hermione refused to allow him to frustrate her – which she recognized as his entire intention, despite his dependence on her – and instead, remained cool, breathing deep to steady her own flaring temper.

"You are conveniently forgetting that I am your Healer, and your health and survival – and identification – are entirely dependent on me," Hermione replied coolly, a small smile crossing her lips. "I could have easily formulated a dozen reasons why moving you to the isolation ward was dangerous. I could have also positively identified you as Severus Snape, former professor and headmaster of Hogwarts School."

Hermione stabbed with emphasis at a piece of chicken on her plate, chewing it thoroughly, the silence accentuating her point. "If you think for a moment my judgment would be questioned, you are sorely mistaken – I am the most capable Healer this hospital has employed." Turning her eyes to her plate, she sawed at the chicken breast. "My only obligation to you is to get you well again. Everything else?"

She raised her gaze to his, holding it steadily. His eyebrows were arched, exaggerating the deep creases of his forehead, and there was a subtle burning in his eyes, as though her audacity was unexpected, but far from unwelcome.

She offered him a small smirk, trying her best to mimic the sarcastic smile he always cast her, before she continued: "Everything else is a favor."

"Are you implying… your company is also a favor… Ms. Granger?"

"I certainly don't see anyone else flocking to your door to sit with you," Hermione replied sourly.

His game was not new, and she had long since learned how to handle an acerbic patient. Prejudice was still rampant in the world, and it was not unknown that Hermione Granger was a Muggleborn. She encountered many a pure-blood patient, and while it was not the majority, a fairly large proportion still held fast to the values of old. She was forced to lash with a waspish tongue when she was challenged by an acrimonious wizard, and often times, her sharp tongue – which she had learned from the best – garnered her more respect than her actual abilities.

And she knew Severus Snape was no different. He may be the Half-Blood Prince, but he was still a callous, distant, sarcastic man, and she had learned how to handle such a disposition.

"You are going to be here for awhile," Hermione said. "We can subscribe to any journals or magazines you prefer, but I would recommend developing an amicable relationship with the only individual in the hospital who is going to provide your care. Do remember – you requested this situation."

As his eyes moved over her face, he seemed to be regarding her with mild intrigue. For a moment, she held his gaze, her eyes tracing the fine lines framing his eyes, the shadows that surrounded the fathomless depths of black. Her heart yearned to care for him in a way she suspected he never experienced before – with compassion, empathy, affability – but only if he welcomed it. She knew, beneath his icy, apathetic façade, he was a man capable of intense love and dedication, and she thought for once in his life he deserved to be treated as the hero she knew he was.

But he would have to first accept her. Requesting she be the only one to treat him was merely a precaution; the fewer people to interact with him, the more likely his identity remain a mystery. She shrugged nonchalantly, lowering her attention once more to the rapidly cooling plate of food in her lap.

Silence swallowed them for several minutes; as Hermione's senses became habituated to the lingering scent of food in the room, she was able to distinguish the sickly smell emanating from Snape's frail body. The scent of the ill was something she never grew accustomed to, despite having worked in the hospital for several years. She suspected, too, that there was more reason behind his ill scent bothering her than just the fact that it was an unpalatable odor. Smell was a remarkable sense, able to rejuvenate the most degraded of memories. Often times Hermione would enter the apothecary in the basement, the scent of a damp stone walls inspiring a surge of memories to flood her mind from the many hours she spent in the dungeons at Hogwarts.

As Hermione leaned forward in her chair, her eyes studied the withered countenance of the man in the bed. She fought hard to recall the smell she had associated with him from her time at school; she could remember many a time he had leaned over her, criticizing her work – and while it was not a moment she recalled fondly – the scent that lingered in the air around him was not offensive; a faint combination of spices and herbs peppering the pleasant scent of the soap he used. It was a pleasing smell to recall, and such a stark, chilling contrast to the scent of death that lingered in the air now.

The quiet clink of his silverware setting against his plate brought Hermione's attention to the present. Brandishing her wand, she tapped the plate and it vanished, along with hers and the table with which they came. Snape licked his lips, moistening them – and as she searched his face, she noticed how painfully chapped his thin lips were, and the sickly smell that accompanied his breath as he exhaled. She conjured a toothbrush and paste from the air, offering a kind smile to him.

"Here you are," she offered, allowing him to fix the utensil himself. She levitated a shallow basin below his chin for him to spit into, and as he scrubbed roughly at his teeth, she turned her attention to the window; it was a small gesture but it was all she could offer to grant him minimal privacy while he cleaned his mouth.

When he finally finished, he cleared his throat, drawing Hermione's attention to him once more. There was an ugly grimace on his face; Hermione suspected that, once again, his complete dependence on another human being left more of a foul taste in his mouth than the bile and blood that had stained his teeth.

"Another day or so," she said softly, and he turned to look at her. "As long as your wounds have healed adequately, we should be able to get you out of bed." With a tap of her wand, the basin was gone, and Hermione set his toothbrush and tube of paste on his bedside table. Pulling a pair of gloves from her pocket, she slipped them over her fingers and tugged gently at his modesty ribbon. "There are just a few remaining that are particularly worrisome."

As she rolled down his thin patient robe, her warm hands smoothed over his chest, the sparse, course black hair scratching against the thin material of her clean gloves. She gently fingered an open wound, ensuring the borders were intact and warm; the wound itself was emitting a soft golden glow, though dimmer than it was that morning. She knew before long she would have to administer another agonizing application of the healing potion – and she expected Snape was suspicious of such a fact as well. Her graceful, agile touch lingered along the other wounds that were still slowly healing; Snape released a quiet, wincing groan as she fingered the exposed, damaged flesh, but otherwise did not complain.

Discarding her gloves, Hermione fastened the ribbon behind his neck once more, smoothing her soft hand across his forehead and tucking some strands of black hair behind his ears. Her thumb brushed against the rough growth of his cheek, and her lips tugged into a slight frown. In response, he brought his own unsteady hand to his chin, rubbing the rough, coarse hair that covered his jaw.

"Would you like to shave?" Hermione asked, drawing her wand from the confines of her robes.

"Yes," Snape growled, his hand still smoothing against the bristles of his beard. Hermione hadn't noticed earlier the quiet tremor that shook his hands, but his own irritation was flaring as his fingers quivered in his frailty.

Conjuring the required tools, Hermione filled a small basin with enchanted water; the water churned and bubbled quietly, constantly refreshing itself and washing away any debris. She levitated the basin beneath Snape's face, positioning a mirror before him using the same charm. The withered man cast a pained glance at his reflection, and Hermione suspected it was the first time he had viewed himself in a long while. For a quiet moment, his eyes simply flickered over his own reflected features; tracing the angular projections of his cheekbones, the sharp hook of his nose, and the sallow bags that circled his tired eyes. His appearance pained him as much as it worried her, and she knew he was far from a vain man.

"Here," he grunted, reaching for the lather and the razor.

Hermione turned them over, her careful eyes surveying the subtle tremor in his hands as he smoothed the white foam over his beard growth. She was concerned that the persistent quaver of his hands would cause him more harm than good, but she resisted the urge to insist she perform the task for him. He may not be vain, but he was proud, and he was already disgusted with his dependence on her.

He managed to steady his hand enough to begin gliding the razor over his cheek, though Hermione could tell it took a great deal more effort than he wished to convey. Ever careful, the precise pressure he used to slide the blades over his fragile skin was slow and delicate and very precise, and it took several minutes before he finished a single side of his face. Rising from the chair, Hermione approached the window, staring out at the busy street below them. Several groans and quietly hissed profanities later, she turned back to her patient, and his face was clean of shaving cream. It was remarkable the improvement in his appearance the simple shave offered him.

"I'm impressed," she offered playfully. "You aren't bleeding at all. I don't know many men who emerge from the bathroom without several patches of tissue stuck to their face."

"I wasn't… aware that you were acquainted… with any men at all, Ms. Granger," he replied coarsely, the faintest hint of a smirk crossing his features and lightening the lines of his face.

"I suppose it could be debated," Hermione replied with a smile, flicking her wand at the basin and mirror, which both disappeared with a quiet pop!.

Snape set the razor on his bedside table, a curious expression set on his cleanly shaven face. "If I… provided you a list of journals—"

"Absolutely," Hermione nodded. "I will have them delivered to my office in my name." She paused, pensively, her eyes studying his face for a moment before she added, "But I still recommend developing an amicable relationship with your caregiver."

A soft grunt was his only response, and with a wave of his hand, the head of his bed slowly lowered. He turned onto his side, facing away from Hermione, and with an indignant bristle, she realized she was just excused.

"Good afternoon, Sev," she whispered, disappearing around his curtain.

The remainder of Hermione's day was not unlike any other – as long as she disregarded the fact that she was responsible for the care of a formerly deceased man. She had two additional patients that afternoon, neither with a particularly challenging affliction, and she returned to Snape's room twice more to administer his scheduled potions and bid him good night.

"I would say hello to Ronald for you," she began, leaning on the foot of his bed. "But I don't believe he'd handle the news of your 'resurrection' nearly as well as I have."

A quiet grunt was his only response, his eyes never lifting from the potions journal Hermione delivered to him earlier from her own personal subscriptions. Her hand gently touched the breast pocket of his patient gown, fingering the edge of the fake Galleon he had slipped there, and he tore his gaze from the page to stare suspiciously at her fingers.

"If you need anything at all," she whispered.

His ebony eyes held her gaze steadily, an unfamiliar – yet pleasant – warmth burning in their amber depths. Briefly, he longed to beg her to remain by his side; her company was certainly not unwelcome, and she had provided him a strange companionship that he had longed to call his own. When she finally pulled her eyes from his, in a swirl of lime green she abandoned his room.

Severus neither appreciated nor understood the odd surge of emotions she aroused in him merely with her presence. He suspected it was due solely to the fact he had not encountered another compassionate human being in nearly seven years – the "allegiance" of Death Eaters in the year following Albus' death certainly did not count as compassionate – and he was reacting to her in desperation. Try as he might to push her away, he knew she would only draw nearer, and prove his efforts entirely futile.

As the quiet click of the door implied her departure, Severus sunk into the bed below him. The longer he was forced to remain in the hospital, the more dangerous his presence there would become. She certainly would grow closer to him, as she was wont to do – and he wasn't sure he had the strength to guard himself from her. It was one thing to close oneself off from the world due to desire; it was something else to do so despite it. He longed for her company, if only because she was kind and she obviously cared for him – as despicably pathetic as it was that he would feel such a way. Initially, he sought to manipulate her compassion into his own gain, but the more time he spent in her presence, the stronger the urge became to simply accept her compassion as warranted and deserved, and not something to be taken advantage of.

He allowed his eyes to close, his quiet, rasping breaths echoing in his own busy mind. He simply needed to remember her as the painfully insufferable know-it-all that was his student; such a comparison would surely drive him to disdain. And even so, as his eyes were closed, he could picture the traits of her that were inherently mature: the pleasant scent of her skin as she leaned over him; the subtly hidden curve of her breasts; the hips that lurked beneath that hideously lime green uniform, accentuating her delicately small waist. He was attracted to her purely out of depravity, out of insanity, desperation; he had not encountered a woman – especially a lovely one – in such a long time that his body was reacting to her presence irrationally – naturally.

Shaking his head as though shedding from it the thoughts that haunted him, Severus allowed his eyes to flicker open. Despite himself, he still could not help but wish for her to return to his room, providing him the pleasant company that had been absent from his life for the last seven years.

He turned to face the window, the darkened sky glowing with the light of billions of stars. A gentle breeze blew through his room, carrying with it the silence of the night and the perpetual scent of freshly mowed grass and blossoming flowers. A clever charm, Severus thought, but a charm that truly impressed upon a person just how alone they were.

Slowly opening the door to her apartment, Hermione was greeted by the quiet groan of the television set. She released a soft sigh; every evening she returned home, she had hoped she would find Ron elsewhere beside the couch. But every evening she returned home, she was only greeted with disappointment, the gentle hum of the television leaking through into the hallway before she even opened the door.

Peering her face into the small apartment, she greeted Ron cordially and set her purse on the floor. Crossing the small living room, she plopped down indelicately on the couch beside him, leaning into his chest as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She knew he must have recently showered; while his hair was dry, the pleasant aroma of his soap emanated strongly from his chest, and as he lifted his arm, she caught the scent of his deodorant. She kicked off her shoes, leaving them lying beneath the coffee table.

"I missed you last night," Ron's voice was soft, barely a whisper, his lips grazing the top of Hermione's head.

"I'm sorry, Ron," she replied, tipping her head back against his shoulder to stare into his blue eyes. She brought her hand over his shoulder, her slender fingers combing through his messy auburn hair. "A very ill patient was admitted, and I was nervous about leaving him overnight…"

"Yeah, I know," he replied gruffly, his gaze returning to the television screen. "I know how you are."

Hermione followed his gaze, her eyes flickering over the glossy screen as the news stories breezed by. With her head resting against his shoulder, his fingers gently tracing the slender curve of her waist, they sat quietly for awhile simply watching the news. She loved the feel of his hair between her fingers, silky and softer than hers; and the smell of his body, a smell she couldn't quite describe but it filled her with warmth, with happiness.

As they reclined on the couch, tangled in each other's limbs, Hermione's mind began to wander. She couldn't help but wonder if Ron had ever left for work that day; she suspected he had not if he smelled so freshly clean so late in the day. She knew it was not unusual that he would have called in; he rarely appeared for work if she was not home in the morning to push him – and the only reason she knew such was because George had confided in her such information. He, of course, had not been aware she had spent the night at the hospital; instead, he relayed the dates to her, and she provided the missing link.

Rising from the couch, she brushed her palm against his smooth cheek. "I'm going to bed, Ron. I'm absolutely exhausted."

He raised his gaze to her amber eyes. "What about the patient?"

She felt her breath catch in her throat, a burst of anxiety exciting her heart. The recently overtaxed organ began fluttering in her chest as the color drained from her face. "What about him, Ron?"

Hermione couldn't explain her sudden apprehension to his question, and logically, she understood it was irrational. But even so, with the exhaustive measures she employed to ensure her patient's identity remain secret, the mere fact that Ron was asking after him made her uneasy.

"Normally, you tell me about the ones you stay overnight for," he answered simply, reaching his hand behind his head to scratch his neck. "What brought him in, why you wanted to stay. You know, that stuff."

Hermione couldn't help the small smile that parted her lips as he spoke; a feeling of relief and happiness washed over her. She hadn't ever believed he actually listened to her when she spoke about her patients; he seemed to always arbitrarily nod when he thought it was appropriate, a disinterested humming escaping him at the proper pause. Lowering herself onto the couch, she stared at the television; a rather flamboyant reporter was interviewing a woman she did not recognize.

"Well," Hermione began, softly. "We don't know what happened to him. He was in critical condition when he was transferred to St. Mungo's – the only reason I was assigned to his care was because how badly he was injured. He was obviously attacked, but by whom, we're uncertain; it must have been someone who sought to murder him, but they were unsuccessful."

"Sounds like he's lucky to have gotten you, 'Mione," Ron replied, his blue eyes scanning her face.

"I think… I think he feels the same way, too," her eyes flickered to her lap, where her fingers fumbled with the fabric of her robes. A faint blush settled into her cheeks.

A quiet moment settled between them, the voice of the flamboyant reporter resonating through the room. As a small yawn escaped Hermione, she rose once more from the couch. Ron's hand brushed against hers, and she offered him a small, tired smile, before padding softly to the bedroom, the feeling of the soft carpet soothing to her sore feet.

Closing the door behind her, Hermione breathed in deeply, the smell of her own bedroom a pleasant disparity to the stale scent of the hospital. Her bedroom smelled of clean sheets and an aroma she could never quite describe to anyone, except that it was how Ron smelled first thing in the morning; a pleasant combination of sweat, spearmint toothpaste, and the scent of his hair. It seemed a long time ago that their bedroom often smelled of sex, and as depraved as it may have been, it was a scent she missed deeply.

Peeling off her robes, she tossed them in a crumpled pile in the clothes basket. The cool air tickled gooseflesh along her skin, a shiver coursing through her body. She unfastened her brassiere, allowing it to fall to the floor at her feet. As the air brushed against her breasts, her nipples tightened into hardened peaks and she smoothed her soft palms across the fullness of her bosom. A soft sigh escaped her as her body began reacting to her own touch. Her exhaustion overwhelmed her desire, though, and with a long yawn, she drew a sleeping gown over her head and slipped under the heavy covers of her full-sized bed.

It was a very odd feeling, the smooth tongue of the doe licking between his fingers and the pads of his hands. Behind him, a young girl's voice was rolling with quiet giggles, her hands tightly grasping his shoulders. He could feel her soft breath on his neck as she peered over his shoulder; he expected to find her emerald eyes wide with wonder if he turned to look at her.

"Don't let her bite you, Severus!" she whispered frantically in his ear. A quiet giggle escaped her as she rested her sharp chin on his shoulder.

"She's really nice," Severus replied quietly, his voice hushed. "But try to be quiet, Lily. You don't want to scare her away."

The doe, standing only a few inches higher than Severus, lowered her head to the pocket of his overlarge coat. She could smell the food he had tucked away there, and as she poked her narrow snout into the pouch, Severus recoiled just slightly; Lily poked her head around his waist, her face peeking out from beneath his arm. Her pretty eyes were widened as she watched the doe snack from her best friend's pocket.

When the doe couldn't reach any of the morsels that lined the bottom of his pocket, she pulled her head back, her round, black eyes glittering as she looked at the children expectantly. Severus smiled, tucking his hand in his pocket and fingering a few small pieces of food, and turning to Lily, he reached for her hand.

"Here, Lily," he said, his face pinking as his hand grasped hers. He opened her palm and placed the food there. "Your turn. Just hold your hand out."

"Severus, I'm scared," Lily whispered, her wide eyes watching the doe closely. The doe, too, seemed to watching the young girl with a certain amount of interest.

"Don't be," the boy replied.

Standing behind her, Severus placed one of his hands on her upper arm. He was trembling, his face erubescent as he extended his other hand to offer support to hers as she held it to the doe. His fingers gently wrapped around hers, holding her palm open to the deer before him. She looked at them; and Severus could see his face, peering over Lily's shoulder, in the dark reflection.

Slowly, the doe leaned her head towards Lily's hand, her tongue slipping through her lips towards the food in Lily's palm. Her small hand began to recoil, but Severus' hand prevented her from pulling away. A quiet squeak escaped her as the deer began licking the food from her hand, and within seconds, the girl was giggling uncontrollably, the smooth, wet tongue of the deer tickling the pads of her palm.

Severus felt his cheeks lift in a sheepish grin. His hand dropped from Lily's, and slowly he came around her to stand beside her. He tucked his hands into his pockets, watching Lily's face as the deer finished the food from her hand.

"Do you have more?" she asked, her voice a hushed, wondrous whisper.

Severus shoved his hand into his pocket, pulling what tiny morsels of food he still had. Even though he really wanted to feed the doe the last bits of food, he loved to watch Lily's expression, her face glowing with happiness, her emerald eyes wide and twinkling. He dropped the pieces of food into her hand, and with a high-pitched joyous squeak, she turned to the doe and extended her hand.

"Sev, this is so great," Lily cried, wiping her hand on the front of her dress as the doe skirted away from them.

She turned to watch the herd gallop away, the subtle breeze rustling the leaves and catching her braids as it blew. Severus took a step closer to her, his fingertips brushing against hers subtly as he followed her gaze, the bouncing animals disappearing from view through the thicket of trees. Suddenly, Lily's small fingers wrapped around his hand, and she threw her other arm over his shoulder, hugging him close.

"That was such a good idea," Lily whispered, her elation still obvious in her high-pitched tone of voice. "Can we do it again soon?"

"Sure," Severus answered, a smile creeping on his face. His cheeks were turning pink in her embrace, and he couldn't remember ever feeling so happy or so warm as when he was with her.

Pulling out of his arms, Lily turned to face the direction of the deer once more, but they were gone. Lowering to her knees, she reached for a long twig, lifting it into her hand. Her eyes were skittering over the surface of the ground, and as she spotted another suitable wand, she reached for it and handed it to Severus.

"I'm so glad you're my friend, Severus," Lily said, raising her pretend wand to his chest. "I'm going to make up a spell that makes you stay my friend forever."

"Lily!" Severus gasped, the stick in her hand pressing playfully into his stomach. "You don't need magic for that."

"I know," she said with a smile, waving her makeshift wand around Severus' head. "But I still want to make the spell. That way I can make sure!"

"How about…" Severus began slowly, waving his stick in opposition to Lily, pretending to duel her. "How about I'll promise to stay your friend forever if you promise to stay mine?"

"I think that'll work," Lily said, her hand jerking inward to poke Severus in the stomach again. "I promise, as long as you do."

The glow of the bright morning sky glared through Severus' closed eyes, a crimson haze illuminating his view. Groaning, he pulled the blankets over his head, tightening around him a cocoon of cotton. The white sheets did little to protect him from the morning light, and gingerly, he turned onto his back. The movement caused shooting pains to fire throughout his limbs, a general ache infecting every joint in his body.

Slowly, his eyes flickered open, the sterile white room brighter than what he deemed acceptable. The candles were extinguished and even so, the sunlight infiltrating his room reflected off of every surface, a general glow burning his sensitive, tired eyes. With a frustrated jab of his hand, the blinds on the windows slammed to the sill, and finally, the room was dim.

His dream was quickly escaping his memory, but the overwhelming feeling of sorrow that suffocated him lingered on. A faint sting burned the backs of his eyes, and as he stared at the empty ceiling, he couldn't help the trickling tear that escaped his eye and stained his pillowcase.

A quiet tap at the door brought his bony hand to his face, roughly rubbing away the tears. A quiet creak and delicate footsteps brought Granger around the curtain, her face bright and fresh. Her amber eyes glittered in the dimness of the room, and as her gaze flickered over Severus', and to the surrounding atmosphere, a faint wrinkle pressed into her forehead.

"It's like a tomb in here," she sighed, her eyes fell to his face, and the corner of her mouth tugged into a subtle smile. "I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised. Are you awaiting the Vampire Congregation?"

Her subtle jab at playful sarcasm was not overlooked by Severus, and he arched his eyebrow at her, as though to say, 'Is that the best you've got?'. A small, disapproving shake of his head conveyed all she needed to know, and as she released an exaggerated exasperated sigh, she swept to his medicine cabinet.

"How are you feeling this morning?"

"Sore."

As she rummaged through the drawer, she turned her head just slightly, peering at him from the corner of her eye. Under her gaze, Severus shifted in the bed, a grimace contorting his face as his joints protested his movement, the musculature of his back screaming in their malcontent. She returned her gaze to the cabinet and removed several vials and conjured the familiar goblet.

"I'm going to begin including an anti-inflammatory potion in your cocktail," she said, pouring a pinkish liquid into the goblet. "It should reduce the pain in your joints. Can you tell me about your heart?"

Cynically, Severus began listing the characteristics of his heart she wasn't interested in: as though her name were burned into the muscle itself, his love for Lily was undying; his heart was broken, and the fact that it continued to beat despite its wound was purely a cruel joke played by Fate in all her capriciousness; it was cold and empty, its capacity for emotion all but exhausted.

Turning his gaze from her to the wall, Severus cleared his throat. "I have not noticed any pain… since yesterday afternoon."

Coming to his bedside, she held the goblet to him, as though offering him the opportunity to redeem himself for his sickening, pathetic dependence on her. Severus extended his hands, grasping firmly to the goblet, willing away the weak tremor that continued plaguing his limbs. The liquid within the goblet sloshed about just barely, and Severus was able to lift the cup to his lips and drink the solution within.

He hadn't noticed the small vial she held in her hands until she began drawing the potion into a small dropper: the devilish solution he had grown to abhor. She cast him an apologetic glance as she leaned over him, and in preparation, Severus reached to the edge of the mattress, his fingers curling tight around it. The searing burn of agony washed over him, and while he could hear the sibilance as the liquid began foaming at his wounded flesh, the sound seemed distant, as though his head were underwater.

Quickly, the pain subsided, and Severus released the edge of his mattress. The movement of his fingers brought to his attention their sore stiffness, and bitterly, he began to wonder if there was any part of his anatomy that wasn't in pain. Though he knew it was irrational, he had hoped the anti-inflammatory potion she fed him would have worked instantly – and was bitterly disappointed. Staring up at the ceiling, he curled and uncurled his fingers. Her hands were moving over him, her wand brandished and her voice gently singing the incantation.

"You may be wondering why you have needed so many applications," she began softly, sheathing her wand and returning the vial to the cabinet. Her amber eyes roamed over his body, a wrinkle creasing her furrowed brow. She untied his gown, turning it down to his lap. "You have a few injuries that seem to be quite stubborn. I believed, yesterday, they had actually closed some, but I don't believe they have. Typically, even the more severe wounds will heal within forty-eight hours."

Tucking his chin to his chest, Severus followed her hands as she showed him the wounds in question. They were glowing golden, a gentle halo surrounding them, but she was right; while the majority of his wounds were healed or nearly healed, there were several that continued to gape, the red flesh glaring angrily.

"If they haven't shown improvement by tomorrow morning, I will change your treatment," she told him, her voice calm but calculating. "There is another healing potion I avoid using unless I have to. I can only apply it twice before it loses effectiveness, but it is a very powerful potion."

As she studied his body, her hands smoothing softly over the surface of his flesh, Severus reached behind her to a small sheet of scrap parchment. He had charmed a summoned quill to record his voice into written word – he didn't suspect he would be able to steady his hand to produce legible script – and created a list of journals from which she could select to subscribe. As he watched her, her amber eyes oscillated from wound to wound, from landmark to landmark, from healing bruise to healing bruise.

"Have you decided yet whether you would like to confide in me what caused these injuries?" her voice was cautious and hesitant, as though it was a subject she wasn't confident she should breach.

He took a moment to reply, and as her hands lifted his left arm, rotating the limb at the shoulder, he winced. She seemed to notice the limited flexibility of the joint, and she chewed her lip pensively as her eyes moved over the socket. She tested another direction; she extended his arm out towards the curtain, but the quiet groan that escaped him conveyed more to her than the limited movement.

"Yes," he groaned.

To this, Granger's hands slowed in her diligent examination, and he noticed the subtle glance of her eyes to his face. As though she did not want to betray her curiosity to him, she rounded his bed, coming to his right leg, her gentle hands lifting the limb and testing its flexibility and range of motion.

"It is none of your business."

"How nostalgic," she replied, an acerbic sting to her voice. "Despite your beliefs, it will aid in your recovery."

"And it would appear… that despite your ignorance… I am still recovering."

"That may very well be true," Granger said, her hands finally coming to rest on his arm, her ginger touch lifting the limb and rotating it at the shoulder. "But it may shed some light onto these unhealing wounds."

"It is doubtful."

Granger disdainfully shook her head, her amber eyes burning in disapproval. However, she knew when to resign, and she released a quietly frustrated sigh. Finally, she spotted the fool scrap in Severus' hand, and she extended her hand. Severus passed it to her, his dark eyes flickering from her hand, whose smooth fingertips brushed against his skeletal digits, to her face. Her furrowed brow inspired a small smirk to lift Severus' cheeks.

"The list of journals," Severus said softly.

The saccade of her eyes roamed the sheet of parchment and she folded it carefully, slipping it into the pocket of her robes. "I'll have these delivered as soon as possible."

Severus nodded, turning from her to face the window. The blinds were still drawn, and thin rays of light escaped through the cracks. He flicked his wrist and the blinds lifted, allowing the bright morning to pour into the room.

"I'm not sure how you feel about it," Granger began cautiously. "But we have available a shower that can accommodate a wheelchair and a second person."

Severus eyed her in mild interest, his eyebrow arched as she spoke. He could tell she was forcing the disinterested expression on her face, a slight quivering of her eyebrows displaying her otherwise emotionless face.

"You have a few options," she continued, her fingers flexing at her sides; it was apparent she was trying to keep from wringing her hands. "You can finish as much as you can, and then I can assist with anything else. You could also forgo whatever you can't wash yourself, and we can take care of that in bed."

"I am in desperate need of a shower," Severus acknowledged, his oily voice regaining its strength.

"As I said, I don't necessarily need to accompany you, but it would—"

"Ms. Granger," Severus began, his resonating voice chilling her. "It is your duty, is it not, to ensure your patients are comfortable?"

Severus loathed the idea as much as she seemed uncomfortable with it, but the truth of the matter persisted; the bed bath she provided him upon his arrival had done little to actually clean him of his filth, and upon waking each morning he was faced with the reek of his own body. And as much as his muscles ached, he yearned for a hot shower.

"Yes, and while cleanliness generally increases comfort, I must also consider the patient's preferences," she replied, her teeth chewing at her bottom lip. "If my patient is uncomfortable with my assistance in the shower—"

"Let us just pretend, for the time being, we haven't an established relationship," Severus interjected. "I am simply another patient."

Granger seemed to consider this, and she straightened her shoulders as she nodded. "Of course."

Severus was greatly amused that she was so uncertain in her role in that moment. Her discomfort and caution was evidence that she still viewed him as her professor, and because of that, he suspected, she had already begun treating him in a different light than she would any other patient.

"Give me a few minutes and I will have the shower prepared."

In a flash of green, she had disappeared behind the privacy curtain, the door quietly closing behind her. Severus leaned back into his pillows, staring woefully at the ceiling. In a matter of three days, Hermione Granger had become better acquainted with Severus Snape than she had in the six years she had been his student. His dependence upon her inspired in him a combination of emotions, from anger and frustration to an overwhelming warmth.

Hermione's mind was whirling as she hurried to her office. She hadn't expected Snape's willingness to allow her in the shower with him, and while he was right that she should treat him as any other patient – she was afraid it wasn't so easy. Standing in her office, she tugged her fingers through her hair, breathing an anxious sigh.

Assisting a patient in the shower was not an unusual task; Hermione had done it countless times before, and she knew she would do countless times after. But for some reason, her stomach fluttered as she prepared to assist Snape in the patient shower. Reaching into the pocket of her robes, she removed the fool scrap he provided her, her tremulous hand rustling the parchment. Her eyes scanned the spiky script, the haunting familiarity of the cramped writing reminding Hermione of her task.

Setting the list of journals on her desk to address later, she closed the door behind her and moved towards the supply closet. There, she retrieved toiletries for Snape, her stomach never ceasing in its churning. She couldn't rationally explain her apprehension, but with her trembling hands holding the various bottles, she ascended the stairs to the isolation ward.

In the large shower room, Hermione set the bottles on the tile floor. She summoned wash cloths and some towels, setting them near the sink, and with a final flick of her wand at her robes, she charmed the fabric to expel water. Steadying her anxious breath, she left the shower room, retrieving a wheel chair from the storage closet and wheeling it to Snape's room.

"Here we are, Sev," she greeted, willing her voice to steady. Drawing her wand from her robes, she moved towards his bed. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, Ms. Granger," he growled, replacing the periodical in his hands on his bedside table. Gingerly, he kicked the covers to the foot of the bed, revealing to the cool air the pale, wiry-haired skin of his legs. He began to lean forward, his arms supporting the weight of his body.

Hermione stepped towards him, shaking her head, and with her wand drawn, she said, "No, no, Sev. You needn't do anything here. Foolish wand-waving has its merits, I've come to find in my many years of magic use." Her tone was playfully sarcastic. "A swish and a flick later, I'll have you in the wheelchair, by no effort of your own."

Casting her a harmless glare, Snape leaned back into his pillows once more. With an emphatic flick of her wand, the saturnine man appeared weightless, his frail body lifting from the surface of the mattress and slowly lowering into the wheelchair beside his bed. It began to roll forward, the footrests supporting Snape's bare feet and the lap belt coming across his thighs without any action of his own.

Hermione followed the chair as it wheeled itself from the room, turning down the hallway and approaching the shower room, as though guided by an invisible rope. Snape leaned back into the chair and Hermione could tell from his stiffness that he was not enjoying his dependency on others and objects in order to survive. But even so, he neither complained nor cursed; simply, he allowed life to follow its course – and Hermione suspected he was a firm believer in the workings of Fate, and that everything that happened was happening for a reason.

As they entered the large bathing room, the quiet creak of the wheels and Hermione's clicking heels echoed against the tile walls. With her wand, she tapped the wheelchair, charming it much the same as she had her own robes. She closed the door quietly behind her, and the room illuminated itself with high-hanging candles. Another movement of her wand opened the faucets, the water temperature automatically setting itself to a comfortable heat, and as she tested the water with her hand, she allowed her eyes to settle on the man in the wheelchair.

"I am going to have you do as much as you can on your own, Sev," she said softly, and despite her whisper, her voice still reverberated through the room. "I don't feel you should be on your feet just yet. Anything you can't reach, or anything that causes too much pain – let me handle that."

Snape nodded curtly, his eyes focused on something that wasn't his Healer's face. Hermione felt a surge of sympathy swell in her chest. She suspected he was avoiding her gaze to reduce the deplorable sense of pathetic dependence he must have been feeling in that moment, and despite her best efforts, she knew she would never be able to completely relieve him of such feelings.

Gently, her nimble fingers loosened the tie of his robe. Moving behind him, concealing most of his body from her view and providing him the most privacy she could muster, she pulled the patient gown from his body. The chair rolled forward into the hot shower of water, and a quiet, pleasured groan echoed through the tiled room; the feeling of heat must have been heavenly upon his sore body.

With his hand out, the bottle of shampoo floated to him, dispensing the liquid into his palm. He began massaging his scalp, but a small whimper escaped him, and he recoiled his left arm. Hermione stepped forward, her voice quiet and kind as she spoke.

"Would you like me to help you with your hair, Sev?"

"My shoulder hurts."

"I know," she replied softly, and gently, she began massaging the soap into his hair. "I'm surprised all of you doesn't hurt."

"It does."

A soft sigh escaped him, her nails tenderly scratching against his scalp. His head fell forward against his chest, granting her greater access to the base of his skull, and slowly, with tender force, she massaged the shampoo into his hair, her fingers rubbing against his head. She knew it must have felt wonderful for him, the heat and the pressure and the rhythmic kneading of her fingertips; his soft groans of pleasure only confirmed her suspicion, and hesitantly, she allowed him to rinse. She combed her fingers through the length of his hair, loosening the tangles, the water rolling over his hair and her hand and into the drain below.

He was able to wash most of his upper body, with the exception of his right arm; his left shoulder was so tight and tender that he had trouble extending his arm across his body. She smoothed the washcloth over his right arm, a soapy lather concealing his flesh from her sight. When she finished, he retrieved the cloth from her hands, and she backed away to allow him to care for his more private anatomy.

Thoughtfully, Hermione had brought with her a second washcloth; she hadn't known why she thought it was best to do so, but as she stood behind Snape, watching him struggle to reach his lower legs, it occurred to her.

"Sev," Hermione began softly. "Lay that cloth across your lap – it'll give you as much privacy as possible while I clean up your legs."

Snape grunted in frustration, finally resigning to her suggestion and tucking the cloth between his legs. Hermione came around the wheelchair, lowering herself to her knees, the water cascading over her body and robes as though she were coated in plastic. Snape's dark gaze followed her hands as she began massaging his legs with the soapy cloth, her bare hands running over the wiry black hairs that covered the limb.

She moved over his left leg, gently cleaning the surface of the skin. Even his legs appeared emaciated, much as the rest of him; the skin seemed to sink around the musculature of the limbs, the tendons and ligaments holding the entire structure together appearing as though there was little separating them from the rest of the world. Her fingers gently stroked the ligaments attaching his thigh to his lower leg, prominent as the bones of his knees.

Around his right leg, there was a gnarly scar; it looked as though gargantuan jowls had surrounded the limb and tore in an attempt to remove the leg from its joint. How it healed without infection, Hermione hadn't the slightest; but what she did suspect, however, was that she was well-acquainted with the beast that injured him. As she smoothed her soft fingers over the mangled, silvery flesh, she allowed her gaze meet his.

"Is this from Fluffy?"

"Excuse me?"

"This scar, here – I remember, in my first year, Harry told me about how he walked in on Filch helping you bandage a wound… right around Halloween," Hermione explained casually, her agile hands moving down the length of his leg to his foot, where she delicately scrubbed. "I was just wondering. It's an awful scar to have received from something else."

"Indeed," Snape replied, his hands held strategically over the washcloth in his lap. "It is difficult to keep watch on the head of an animal when it, in fact, has three."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh, and as she raised her gaze to meet Snape's, she thought she detected the faintest of smiles tugging at his mouth. For a moment, she simply stared into the fathomless depths of his impossibly dark eyes; those eyes had seen such horrors, and she could only imagine the stories he could tell his children and grandchildren – stories of good triumphing, the woes of love, the value of loyalty, of dedication – if only he had a family to narrate to.

Standing, she stepped away from the water, the last droplets sliding over her clothes and forming a puddle at her feet. The flowing shower stopped suddenly, leaving Snape dripping wet and shivering in the cool air. "Would you like to soak in a hot bath for a little while, now that you're clean?"

With a wave of her wand, a bathtub – originally concealed by an illusionary wall – was revealed through a hazy, disappearing wall. The faucets opened up, pouring steaming water into the large basin; a combination of relaxing scents began to fill the room.

"I would rather return to bed," Snape replied, turning from the newly-revealed bathtub to the Healer behind him. His chest heaved with panting breaths as he drank in the thick air of the room. "I am ashamed to admit that… the simple task of bathing… required more of my energy than I expected."

"Of course," Hermione nodded. And as quickly as it appeared, the bathtub vanished behind the illusionary wall once more.

Hermione assisted Snape in leaning forward in the wheelchair just enough to place a towel over his shoulders, gently smoothing her palms against the fabric and drying his skin. He released a quite groan, the gentle pressure exerted by her fingertips nearly orgasmic against the aching muscle.

Bringing her hands over his shoulders, drying the base of his skull and his neck, she said in a quiet voice, "If it would help alleviate some of the pain in your back, I can give you a massage when you get back to your room."

He did not respond immediately, instead reaching for the second towel Hermione held between her knees. He began drying his waifish chest and then laid it across his lap, replacing the washcloth that he had tucked between his legs. Hermione came around him, lowering herself once more to dry his legs. He seemed to be considering her offer, watching her as she rose from her knees, reaching to the sink to retrieve the clean gown there. She slid it over his arms, fastening it around his neck.

Gently, she pulled a soft bristled brush through his hair, her fingers close to follow, gingerly scratching his scalp with her nails. His brow furrowed as she encountered tangles, and tenderly she tried to work through them without tugging too much at his skin. As she finished, the brush vanished from her hand, and he turned his head towards her slightly, peering at her from the corner of his eye.

"As long as we are still pretending that I am simply another patient with whom you are unacquainted," Snape said, coolly.

"Of course," Hermione replied, a small smile lifting her cheeks.
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Potions, Plans, and Second Chances