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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
- 4
- 5
- 6
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 hope you don't grow weary of my constant need to thank you all. You are some of the best, most encouraging (and in some respects, quite amusing!) readers a writer could ever ask for. Several reviews have brought a silly grin to my face while others have caused me to shamelessly laugh. I love your input and I hope you continue to offer me your opinions and your ideas! Like I said initially, this was just a bit of a plot bunny but I couldn't help but wish to continue with the story. Your perceptions, opinions, and ideas are valued!

Author's Note 2: College is starting up this week so there's a chance updates will be much slower. Bear with me!

Potions, Plans, and Second Chances

K. Marie

Chapter 5

When Hermione returned to Snape's room, the acrimonious man was seated upright in his bed, slowly easing himself to the edge of the mattress. One of his long, frail legs was already dangling over the edge, and though the sight of him perched on the side of the bed alarmed Hermione, she concealed her concern. The man was sick with dependence, and she knew allowing him just the smallest gestures of self-sufficiency would alleviate – though hardly eliminate – his feeling of debility.

Despite her better instinct, Hermione heard herself ask, "Would you like to try to get in the wheelchair without magic?"

Severus lifted his gaze to her, as though surprised she would suggest such a thing. Slowly, he nodded, and though Hermione was panicking internally, she wheeled the chair closer to his bed, kicking the brakes. With her wand, she lowered the height of the bed so his dangling foot rested firmly against the floor. She leaned her weight onto her hands, positioned on either side of his hips, and stared at him levelly. Snape leaned back away from her, his features twisting into a confused expression.

"You must listen to me and do as I tell you, do you understand?" she said firmly, leaning closer to him.

"I am not a fool, Ms. Granger," he growled.

Gingerly, Severus swung his other leg over the edge of the bed, supporting his posture with his hands. Hermione moved beside him, taking his arm and draping it across her shoulder, wrapping her own arm around his back and grasping tightly to his waist. He had done well to conceal his apprehension before, but with her proximity to him, she could feel his frantic breath on her face, as well as the fluttering of his heart within his chest. It was as though the maneuver innervated his anxiety as much as it did hers.

"On the count of three, Sev, I want you to try to stand. Put as much of your weight on me as you need to. It will only be a few steps to the chair," Hermione said softly. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," Snape replied.

"One, two… three," Hermione grunted as Snape lifted himself from the bed; he had displaced much of his weight onto her, and while he was not gargantuan by any measure, he was still heavier than he appeared.

Hermione allowed Severus to lead as they moved to the wheelchair. Her back protested the excess weight he placed on her, but despite the grimace that twisted her features, she silenced her body's despairing grunts as they approached the chair. Snape gently lowered himself into it, groaning as he relieved the weight from his legs. As soon as he was positioned safely into the chair, Hermione slipped out from under his arm.

"How are you feeling?" she asked breathlessly, pressing her fingers to his throat.

Snape's chest was heaving, the painful prominence of his ribcage pressing through the thin flesh that covered his chest. The blood coursing through his veins violently shook the flesh of his throat, and Hermione could nearly count his heart rate visually. Clutching his bosom, Severus drank in the air; the feeling of panic that washed over him was unexpected and very unwelcome.

"Severus," Hermione said firmly, lowering herself to her knees and grasping either shoulder. "Severus, are you okay?"

As he turned his face to her, his fingers clawed at his chest as though he wished to tear the flesh away. A thin layer of perspiration coated his face, throat, and chest, and as his nails dug at his chest, the skin glowed an angry, irritated red. Hermione grasped his hands tightly, holding onto his fingers and keeping him from injuring his delicate skin.

"Severus!" Hermione cried. "Severus! Focus! Look at me, Severus! Deep breaths, now. You're okay. Just take deep breaths."

Finally, he seemed to focus on her face. His dark eyes flickered over her countenance, hungrily drinking in her features as though he would never see her again. Swallowing hard, he leaned into the wheelchair. His chest swelled with hungry, deliberate breaths. Hermione summoned a soft towel, pressing it against his forehead and cheeks, soaking up the sweat.

She was not expecting the tremulous hand that reached out to her, bony fingers wrapping around her shoulder and drawing her in. Hermione was forced to clutch the arms of the wheelchair to keep from falling into Snape's lap, dropping the towel onto his thighs. Her hair fell loose from its tie at the nape of her neck, hanging in pretty tendrils around her face and brushing against the angry skin on Snape's chest.

His fingers were flexing on her shoulder, skeletal digits carving into her flesh painfully. Staring worriedly into his eyes, she barely registered the pretty blue flecks that glittered in the darkness of his irises. Her face, eyes widened with concern, swam in the reflection of his eyes. When finally he released her, his hands grasped at the armrests; Hermione retrieved the towel from his lap, smoothing it over his cheeks again.

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered, still kneeling before him; her voice cracked on her words as she tried to will away her anxiety. She smoothed the towel over his throat before her fingers gently brushed against the rash on his chest. "You weren't ready for that, not with your heart… I shouldn't have let you…"

Severus gently shook his head. "Ms. Granger, I understand your reasoning." His dark eyes searched her face, and as she looked at him, she recognized something deep in the darkness of his gaze. "And I am… appreciative."

A small smile broke out on her face, and as she stared in his eyes she could see the reflection of her face in the darkness. Something else was there too, but she couldn't identify it – an emotion of some form, but she couldn't be sure. Bringing her hand to his hair, she combed her fingers through it, trying futilely to straighten the disheveled mess. It was a strangely tender moment; Hermione was overcome with a feeling of warmth she could neither explain nor understand.

"However," he growled, pulling out of her touch. "I would find myself much more appreciative if we honored my efforts and left this wretched room."

A quiet laugh escaped Hermione. "Of course."

Drawing her wand from her robes, she first tapped Severus' wheelchair; in a moment, it had vanished from view, leaving Snape with the appearance he was hovering above the ground. She performed the same charm on Severus, and he vanished from her sight, though she had fisted a handful of his patient gown to keep track of him – she did not put it past the asinine man to speed off while she could not see him. Finally, she cast the spell on herself, and with a warm trickling feeling down her spine, Hermione, too, was invisible.

"Shall we?" Snape said, peering up at her.

Nodding, Hermione began walking beside the wheelchair as it rolled itself through the door. Silently, they moved to the elevator at the far end of the hallway; Hermione did not expect it to be vacant – that would be far too convenient, after all – and it would be a hassle to slip into the small space unnoticed. As the brass grille opened to permit them access, she found herself to be mistaken, and breathing a small, relieved sigh she and Severus boarded it.

The descent to the bottom floor was far from peaceful; Hermione avoided using the elevator for that very reason. It was very loud and the floor rattled as the chain that supported the lift lowered them. She hardly felt it was a stable mode of transportation, but she had little choice when it came to transporting a wheelchair-bound patient, and it didn't seem Snape had much of an issue with it; though, if he were thinking about much else other than fresh air and open spaces, she would have been surprised.

As the gate opened to allow them exit off the lift, the wheelchair began to roll forward. A few busy bodies on the bottom floor turned to look at the empty elevator, and through habit, she offered them a kind smile. Obviously, they did not respond; instead, they turned and carried on with their business.

The wheelchair wheedled Snape through the crowd, easily avoiding impacting any of the witches and wizards that milled about. Hermione, however, struggled to pass unnoticed, and by the time she had arrived on the terrace beside her patient, she was breathless and damp with sweat. Snape peered up at her through the corner of his eye, his eyebrow arched in sarcastic amusement. Hermione simply wrinkled her nose at him, impersonating the best sneer she could manage.

A small smirk played about his lips and as he sat beside her for a moment, he simply surveyed his surroundings. His chest rose with deep breaths as he drank in the fresh air; the same charm perfumed it as the breeze that drifted into his room. Combing his fingers through his hair, Severus leaned his head back, the sun warming his sallow skin.

"I never imagined you the type to appreciate sunlight," Hermione whispered, playfully.

"You would be surprised how confinement affects your sanity, Ms. Granger," he replied, coldly.

They began roaming, an idle pace carrying them first along the sidewalk that surrounded the hospital. It was cluttered with people, mostly visitors but there were a few hospital workers that were outside smoking. They were able to pass through the patrons without notice, and Hermione began to lead down a path that would take them to a nearby park.

"I did not expect you to be so liberal, Ms. Granger," Snape said, casually, as his eyes wandered over the grassy hills and fragrant trees that littered the landscape. "To lead so far from the hospital."

"If it's an emergency, I can Apparate us back," Hermione replied. "I just wish to avoid it; it's incredibly risky in your unstable state. But I do believe you're well enough to roll around the park for a bit."

"I am appreciative."

"I know."

As they walked slowly down a paved pathway, Hermione tucked her hands into the pockets of her robes. The park was relatively empty for such a lovely day, but she suspected it had everything to do with the fact it was the middle of the afternoon and most people were working. She let her glance flicker to the man beside her; the sunlight did much for his appearance, feigning good health by coloring his skin just slightly. He was not so sallow in the sunlight; instead, his skin seemed to glow with warm tones. His shiny black hair glittered in the bright light.

"I realize that you don't want to tell me about what brought you here," Hermione began softly, a cautious intonation in her voice. "And I understand. But..." Her mind frantically searched for the appropriate words: Why didn't you die? How didn't you bleed to death?

"I assume you wish to know how I survived what should have been a fatal bite."

His voice contained a noncommittal tone, as though he were making mention of the weather. Hermione was surprised that he could be so detached about such a subject when it concerned his life and a vicious attack upon it. Just the mere thought – not even the physical memory, but the less tangible thought – of Nagini's vicious attack brought tears to her eyes, and she merely witnessed it. He had been victim to it.

"Yes," she said finally.

For a long while, they walked in silence. Hermione suspected Snape was going to, once again, deny her information she was so desperate to know. Her pace was idle, nearly falling behind the slow roll of the wheelchair. Severus was staring straight ahead of him, as though he was lost in his own mind and paying no attention to the passing scenery.

"I told you, Ms. Granger," Severus began slowly, his gaze pulling from whatever he was fixated on to look at her. "You do not give me enough credit."

She searched his face for any indication that he intended to continue, but his voice had been very clear; the end of the conversation had already arrived, and he had no intention to continue. He returned his attention to the scenery, his dark eyes surveying all that surrounded him. The warm sun pinked both their faces, but the cool wind that drifted through the trees breezed into their gowns, lifting the fabric. Hermione shivered.

Snape released a small, seemingly uninspired chuckle – but Hermione knew the former Potions professor and Slytherin Head of House did not chuckle without reason, and she suspected he was lost in his own thoughts. They continued along for a short time in quiet; Hermione had opened her mouth to speak on several occasions, but her lips sealed without having spoken a word. Open, close. Open, close.

The wheelchair continued rolling, easily avoiding any oncoming traffic as pedestrians made their way in the opposite direction. When they approached a bench, the chair seemed to roll beside it of its own accord. Hermione lowered herself to the bench beside Severus, stretching her legs out in front of her. Snape folded his hands into his lap, his gaze carefully studying the view laid out before them.

Rolling hills of green stretched out for what seemed like miles, but in the far distance, the silhouettes of tall buildings littered the horizon. There was a small pond in the center of the park, the surface of the water glittering in the sunlight and peppered with floating, buoyant ducks. A few picnickers were gathered around a blanket near the water, and occasionally their laughter was carried by the wind to the couple on the bench. A man in Muggle clothing was walking his dog along the path, and there was a young woman coddling a baby in the grass.

"Are you going to tell me anything about you, Sev? Or have the years of isolation done nothing to change you?" Hermione whispered, her eyes following the walking Muggle man.

"The only thing my seclusion has done," Snape began slowly, his fingers curling around the arms of his wheelchair as he watched the young woman and the baby, "has made the few times I am forced to interact with others less intolerable."

Hermione allowed a small smile to cross her features, her warm eyes moving over Severus' face as though it would be the last time she would ever see him. "I believe a wise man once said, 'only a fool plays it cool by making his world colder.'"

Above them, the quiet chirping of a bird filled the silence that settled between them. Snape's eyes had ceased in their survey, the corner of his mouth twitching in what Hermione only hoped was amusement.

"Ms. Granger, that wise man was Paul McCartney, and believe it or not – I am acquainted with Muggle popular culture," Snape replied coldly with a long-suffering roll of his ebony eyes.

Hermione couldn't help the light-hearted laugh that escaped her, and it seemed to infect Snape as well; a gruff sound escaped him, a concealed chuckle, she suspected, and for a fleeting moment she thought to envelope his hand within hers. Once her sanity returned to her, however, she realized she was sitting beside Severus Snape, one of the coldest, most sarcastic men she had ever known.

The silence that settled between them was not uncomfortable, but it was strange. Snape seemed to be considering something, and once Hermione thought she heard a sharp intake of breath as though he was going to begin speaking; but it was followed by silence. Hermione's gaze followed the Muggle man as he walked around the paved path, tugging his dog away from flocks of birds.

"You have made mention of him, but you never implied your relationship," Snape began, feigning interest. "Your ring."

Hermione lifted her hand, the small diamond set in the band glittering in the sunlight. "Oh, yes… I am engaged to Ron."

"And it is curious," Severus said softly, arching his eyebrow as he peered at her. "It is quite curious, indeed."

Hermione released a soft sigh, lowering her gaze to her lap. There, her fingers twisted the dainty ring around her finger, chewing her lip.

"It is also intriguing that you appear to be less than pleased about the arrangement," Snape added. "As though you were forced into such a situation."

"I was hardly forced, Sev," Hermione snapped. "Ron has changed since the end of the war."

"I imagine everyone has changed, Ms. Granger."

"It's as though Ron is a completely different person," Hermione sighed. "He hardly… he hardly does anything."

Severus tipped his chin just slightly as though to say, 'Ah.' She turned her gaze to him, a sadness welling in her eyes that was nearly tangible. As the cool breeze lifted her hair from the back of her neck, it carried the pretty floral scent he had grown to enjoy. He turned his face away from her eyes, his gaze tracing the outline of the horizon.

"After Fred died," Hermione said softly, a choked sound in her voice. "Ron just… I don't think he could handle it. For a year or so, he refused to accept it. We didn't talk about it much. That… that was when he proposed. He wasn't so different then, and of course, I loved him. But then… Then… he just… changed."

She allowed her gaze to fall to her lap, staring at the soft pads of her hands. Snape shifted in the chair beside her, and she knew the conversation must have been awkward for him. She couldn't help but confide in him – she knew not what drove the desire and despite the small voice that insisted she would regret it. Her past experiences with him were evidence enough he was not compassionate, and yet his recent behaviors indicated he had changed in the years he had been "dead."

She had not the slightest idea why, but she yearned to give him the chance to prove that he was not the callous, sarcastic, vindictive, petty man that she had grown to believe him to be. And even if he would not confide in her anything at all about him, it did not mean she had to allow his secrecy dictate her own interactions with him.

"You do not sound happy, Ms. Granger," Snape growled, his eyes following the bodies of the picnickers. "What point is there if you are unhappy?"

Hermione did not suspect his statement had any intention on stinging, but as soon as the words escaped him she felt anger overwhelm her. She did not believe he had any right to say any such thing, and the fact he was so audacious and hypocritical incensed her more than his words. The tiny voice that had attempted to discourage her from confiding in him began shrieking its victory.

"You're one to talk," Hermione hissed. "You dedicated your entire life to a dead woman's memory."

He bristled at her biting remark, and as she met his gaze she could see the fiery anger that glowed within the unfathomable depths. She noticed the tension increase in his frail arms, and for a moment she suspected he considered striking her. Instead, he tightened his grasp on the armrests of the chair, his knuckles paling to a skeletal white.

"You have no right," Severus snarled. His voice was a dangerous hiss, but Hermione was unfazed by it.

"And neither have you," Hermione replied softly, her amber eyes burning with a fury that matched his.

Swallowing hard, Severus turned his gaze from her. "I am simply stating an observation."

"And I am simply stating fact."

As Severus' gaze followed the picnickers as they milled about the pond, Granger's voice seemed to carry with it an indescribable sorrow that seemed inappropriate considering the subject matter. Though he knew it was a bold statement to declare, the impulse to speak swept through him – and while he was not one to allow his urges to overcome his logic, he did not bite his tongue.

"You do not seem happy, Ms. Granger. What point is there if you are unhappy?"

She snapped her gaze to him, a brief expression flickering over her countenance. Her brow furrowed, a wrinkle creasing her forehead; her eyes passed over his features, a fiery fury burning within their amber depths. In that moment, Severus knew he inspired a temper within her that rarely ignited; he realized then she was not so unlike him.

"You're one to talk," she snarled, her voice sibilate in her anger. The words she spoke next did not need to escape her lips; he already knew what she was going to hiss, and they stung. "You dedicated your entire life to a dead woman's memory."

Had Severus the energy, he feared he would have struck her in her audacity. The fury that overwhelmed him in that moment threatened to loosen his resolve. Driving his fingers into the armrests, he tightened his grasp until his knuckles were so white they were nearly translucent. He forced his voice into a low growl, vicious and dangerous.

"You have no right."

Color rose into her cheeks in her anger, her fury emanating off her like the heat of her body. "And neither have you."

As her words rang in his mind, Severus breathed in a deep, steadying breath. Turning his gaze from her face, he stared off to the glittering pond. Swallowing hard, he forced away the lump growing in his throat.

"I am merely stating an observation."

Granger's gaze finally abandoned his face, lingering somewhere beyond the horizon. The intonation of her voice was icy and biting, not dissimilar from the tone Severus usually commanded.

"And I am merely stating fact."

As silence settled between them, Severus allowed his gaze to drift over her face. Her features were still twisted into an angry expression, but the color slowly drained from her face. The anger that radiated from her small form was unexpected and nearly intimidating, but with it, Severus developed a certain sense of understanding about her. He was truly beginning to understand why Hermione Jean Granger, of all the Healers he could have been assigned to, was the one responsible for his care.

"Perhaps I should apologize, Ms. Granger," Severus whispered. "It was not my place."

For a moment, they were bathed in an awkward, heavy silence. Severus knew it was unusual for him to apologize – it was a very unusual experience to even feel as though he were in the wrong – but the uncomfortable silence that weighed in on them was entirely unrelated to that. Hermione's gaze was fixated on something before her, her face maintaining its furious expression.

And in the next moment, her face crumpled. She visibly wilted under his gaze, her entire posture seeming to collapse; her shoulders slumped forward and her head seemed to hang limply. She lifted her hand to her face, a quiet muffled cry escaping her as her entire body shivered with her sobs.

Severus was hardly adept at handling positive social interaction – his ability to console was even more dreadful. As his Healer wept beside him, Severus stared at her for a moment; he hadn't even been aware that what he had said could evoke sadness. He thought of what he would prefer to hear if he were upset, and he realized that would be of no help to him either. He would have wanted to be alone, but seeing as he could not leave her side without inspiring her harpy-like screeches… it was very uncommon, but Severus was at a complete loss.

"I only want – him to be – happy," her voice was broken by her choking sobs, her hands trembling as she pulled them through her hair. "But I don't – know if I – can stay – with him – anymore."

As though the confession shocked her, she buried her face in her hands, her shoulders wracking with her violent sobs. Her entire body was trembling. Severus thought her plight was simple to solve, and yet he knew to state such a solution would not yield his intended result. He brought his own tremulous hand to the rough growth covering his jaw, smoothing his fingers over the coarse hair there. He released a soft sigh, his dark eyes flickering between the woman who had shown him such compassion in the past few days and the surrounding greenery.

"Ms. Granger," he growled. "You should do what will make you happiest. If Mr. Weasley has succumbed to his own sorrow, there is nothing you can do to help him. You cannot solve all of his problems. You are not in school anymore."

Even though her body still shuddered with her cries, Granger's hands dropped away from her face just slightly. Severus felt himself tense at her reaction; he had no idea whether or not she would interpret his statement in the manner in which he meant it – but he really loathed the idea of sitting in her company if she continued to cry.

She dragged the back of her hand roughly against her mouth, sniffling and turning watery eyes onto the man beside her. "I'm… I'm sorry, Sev. I shouldn't have cried in front of you."

Though he was inclined to agree, Severus said nothing, apprehensive to provoke anger – or worse, further crying. It didn't matter though, it seemed as though Granger had finally managed to contain her emotions and stifle her tears. Rubbing roughly at her eyes, she finally rose from the bench.

"I think it's about time we return to the hospital," she said softly. "You are due for your scheduled potions, and I need to administer a treatment."

Relieved to be, once more, in the presence of a professional, Severus nodded. The wheelchair began rolling once more of its own doing, and they began the long and idle walk back to the hospital. Hermione did not say much to him, though, and he suspected she was lost in her own thoughts.

When they finally returned to Snape's hospital room, Hermione had all but suppressed any negative emotion that still haunted her. Having no desire to struggle with Severus' form, however, she levitated him to his bed without offering he have any opportunity to ambulate there himself. He didn't seem to protest, though, and she suspected he was already weary of her presence by that time.

As she mixed his normal medicinal cocktail, Hermione didn't speak much, and neither did her patient. It wasn't until she was preparing to administer the cardiac potion that would begin – hopefully – healing his heart did she say anything at all. She was standing over the medicine cabinet, pouring a precise amount of pinkish potion into the ever-present goblet; Snape's dark gaze was focused on her, and while his scrutiny was far from intimidating, she felt her cheeks warm under his watchful eye.

"This should begin to heal the injured tissue of your heart," Hermione said softly.

Conjuring a dropper, she drew a blue solution from a tiny ampoule and dropped it into the goblet. The pinkish solution within began to glow phosphorescently, reflecting lavender light over her features. She swirled the goblet in her hands, the lavender solution sloshing against the sides.

"I must warn you – and normally, I wouldn't, as I've said before, but with you—" Hermione paused, turning her gaze from the cup in her hands to his face. "This is going to stop your heart for thirty seconds. You will become very light-headed and it will feel as though you're suffocating. I urge you to remain as calm as possible. Panicking will only force you to lose consciousness."

A flicker of concern flashed over Snape's face – an expression those features rarely twisted into, at least from Hermione's perspective. She turned her gaze from him to the goblet, flicking her wrist and swirling the lavender liquid within.

Severus eyed the goblet in her hands warily, but slowly, he nodded his consent. As she moved over to him, he held out his hand to take the goblet from her. She slipped it into his hand, his trembling fingers shuddering against hers. Lowering herself into the seat beside him, she laced her fingers in his, a subtle gesture that spoke volumes for the apprehensive man in the bed.

She wasn't sure if he noticed it, but his grip on her hand tightened as he drank the potion. His hold on her was so strong it was nearly painful for her, but she did not protest; he needed her support in that moment.

The goblet he held in his hand plummeted to the floor with a loud metallic crash; the hand that discarded it came to his chest, his long fingers spread out over the thin fabric of his gown. His face blanched – Hermione could nearly detect the arteries and veins that lurked beneath his pale skin – and droplets of sweat squeezed out onto his face and freckled his flesh. His breathing became ragged, raspy – panting gasps for air as he tried to fill his lungs. His skeletal hand clawed at his chest, his fingers nearly tracing the empty spaces between his ribs.

He pressed into the pillows behind him, the silence of stilled blood in his veins haunting. It was as though time stopped for a moment; the longest skipped heartbeat he had ever endured. His vision began to blur, the periphery beginning to fade to black. Hermione leaned over him, her soothing voice keeping him grounded despite his clouded vision, though the longer his heart was stilled, the farther away she sounded – almost as though he was under water.

As suddenly as it ceased, Severus' heart began pumping again. His vision began to clear and his fingers and toes warmed with heated blood once more. Breathing in deep, he drank in the air around him. His strong fingers tightened around Hermione's hand as his eyes skittered over the ceiling, his frantic breaths sucking in as much air as his lungs could contain without bursting.

"I must admit, despite how tenacious you tend to be, you follow directions quite well," Hermione said, playfully, as Snape finally steadied his frantic breaths. "You hardly panicked at all."

His dark eyes narrowed and he glared at her harmlessly. "It is not the first time I felt as though I would die."

Hermione couldn't stop the smile that crossed her lips. As she rose, Severus finally relinquished her hand, allowing her the freedom to straighten the pillows behind him. Her fingers came to stroke across his forehead, brushing the hair back from his damp forehead.

"No, I suppose it isn't," Hermione replied, moving around the bed to retrieve the goblet from the floor. "Though I wouldn't expect it gets easier with experience."

Snape released a quiet grunt in response, and Hermione cast him a warm smile. As she returned the goblet to the medicine cabinet, she also set down a second vial of a murky brown potion.

"In an hour, I need to give you this potion," she explained. "Half an hour before that, I need to examine your heart to ensure the dose I just gave you is doing its job."

Conjuring a soft towel, Hermione returned to his bedside. She smoothed the fabric over his face and neck, wiping away the sweat that freckled his body. His eyes flickered closed as she moved the cloth over his cheeks, a strong whoosh of air escaping through his nostrils.

"And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, Sev," Hermione said, coyly, pulling her hands from him to rest against her hips. "I'm afraid I've bothered you enough for one afternoon. I'm going to return to my office and file some paperwork – plenty of patient charts that need completing, you see."

Nodding his understanding, Snape reached for the pile of journals stacked on his bedside. "Then I suppose I shall see you in half an hour, Ms. Granger."

As she closed the door behind her, Severus rested the journal atop his thighs. Releasing a soft sigh, he pulled his fingers through his hair, his gaze drifting to the open window. He could not rationalize it, but every moment he spent with his Healer, he yearned to learn more about her. His usual excuse seemed appropriate, but he was growing ever weary of using it. Indeed, she was his first kind encounter; indeed, she showed him compassion he had not known in years – but did it truly warrant the desire for her company?

She had revealed to him a simmering temper and a waspish tongue; she knew what to say when she was feeling resentful. She did not make frequent use of disparaging comments, but when she felt it appropriate, she wielded language as though it were a weapon. And as it abandoned her lips, a violent weapon it was.

She was an intriguing young woman indeed, and she was not so unlike him. She was hardly callous, nor contemptuous or vengeful, but she was cunning and she was noble, she was brave and she was dedicated. While her sorrows were juvenile – how childish a confession she confided in him earlier – he knew precisely why she endured such struggles. She cared for Weasley, and despite whether she still truly loved him, she could not abandon him.

It may just be desperation, but Severus did not find her company dreadful. Even when she caused him great discomfort – such as when she was crying in the park – her company was more desirable than the solitude he had endured for so long. The gentle strokes of her fingertips against his skin as she brushed his hair back from his face, the small hand laced in his fingertips as he endured some torturous procedure, the warmth of her eyes and the kindness of her smile… there was something hauntingly familiar about her, and yet he could not be sure the source.

When she returned, Granger brought with her another stack of journals. There was a warm smile playing about her face and as she set the short stack of periodicals among the rest of them, she withdrew her wand from the confines of her robes.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Fine," Severus replied, watching her mill about him.

With a deliberate flick of her wand, a familiar foggy shroud formed above Severus; this time, though, as his eyes surveyed it, he noticed it was much smaller and he suspected it contained only his torso. Granger lowered herself closer to the bed, and with a small surge of perversion, Severus averted his gaze from the form above him to the subtle exposure of her chest, the neckline of her robes dropping just enough to reveal the paler skin of her breasts that was hidden from the sunlight. He cursed himself quietly; forty-something and still ogling breasts!

When she moved suddenly, he focused his gaze on her face; he knew it would not do well to be caught staring at any part of her. She did not notice his careful study of her anatomy, her gaze still focused intently on the shrouded form that floated above him. He noticed the faint glowing reds that indicated the status of his injuries, and from the smile that still lingered across her lips he suspected it was good news.

"Do you see this here?" she asked, her wand prodding the cloudy shroud. "Your heart is healing. We can administer the second dose."

"Ms. Granger," Severus said, softly. "Why was that—"

"Painless? You endured the unpleasant aspect of it earlier," Granger replied, crossing her wand through the image above him. It dissipated into smoke. "The potion I administered to you half an hour ago served two purposes: it would begin the process of mending your heart while simultaneously providing the medium required to view the progress in thirty minutes."

Nodding, Severus watched her move from his bedside to the medicine cabinet, where she retrieved the vial of murky brown potion. She poured its contents into the ever-present goblet, twirling her wand above the mouth as though to mix the solution within. When she presented the cup to Severus, the solution within was no longer brown, but instead a rust orange color; he brought it to his nose, sniffing it cautiously, before bringing it to his lips and swallowing it.

Granger must have noticed the subtle tensing of Severus' chest because she allowed a small laugh to escape her. "There is no heart attack this time, Sev."

"You understand my trepidation, Ms. Granger," Severus growled, dragging his hand from his chest to the rough growth of his face. "The experience is quite unpleasant."

"As I suspected," Granger replied coolly. "Your dinner should be arriving very soon, but before it does I would like to perform another examination."

With a subtle shrug of his shoulders, Severus conveyed his indifference and reached for one of the journals he had not yet read. With the thoughtful song of her quiet humming, she smoothed her hands over his body as she studied his body. Beginning on his right side, she rolled his shoulder, extended his arm and checked for the range of his motion. She moved down to his right leg, bending it at his knee and leaning into it to ensure the flexibility of his hip. She repeated her actions on his other side, all the while Severus read from the journal.

It wasn't until she began to examine his abdomen did her movements slow. He winced as she poked her fingers into the open wounds, curling her slim digits around the edges – what she was searching for, he had no idea. He peered at her over the edge of his magazine; there was a crease pressed into her forehead and concern glowing in her amber eyes.

"Ms. Granger?"

"Sev," she said softly, turning her gaze to him. "I'm afraid I have to administer that alternative treatment I mentioned before. These wounds… they're not healing. At all. If you… if you would just tell me—"

"And how is it, exactly, you expect that I have any knowledge about the weapons of my attackers when I was, in fact, discovered unconscious?" Severus snarled.

Granger seemed taken aback by his sudden enmity; she physically took a step back from him, as though afraid he would strike her. Severus had grown quite weary with her constant interrogation, and his irritation was warranted. He had denied her several times already, and in a very Gryffindor display of obstinacy, she persevered. Despite his enjoyment of her company, she seemed to endeavor to pester him.

"Considering you were a wizard who claimed ignorance to be one of the greatest of weaknesses, I highly doubt you don't know the weaponry wielded by the wizards who nearly murdered you," Granger replied, an acidic bite to her voice. "I won't seek them out – I won't even record the weaponry. I just want to kno—"

"You have stated restoration is possible with or without the knowledge of what brought me here," Severus hissed. "And we will continue under the premise of complete ignorance. You cannot know."

"If I am going to continue providing your care for the remainder of your admittance, you need to learn to trust me," Granger countered, her voice shrill.

"On the contrary. My confidence in you needs not exceed the realm of your abilities as a Healer. I neither need, nor want, to trust you." Coldly, he lifted the journal from his lap, concealing most of his face from her view.

She stiffened at his icy response; the quiet whisper of her robes against her body was the only sound in the room. The fading light of the setting sun cast a pretty orange glow across the surfaces in the room. As he peered at her above the magazine, he could see the soft reflection of light in her glossy eyes. Her chin quivered subtly – it was barely noticeable – and Severus knew he had affected her in a way she did not expect.

Her chest swelled with a tremulous breath, her shoulders broadening as she considered an acrimonious response. Her lips parted just slightly, as though she was going to speak; no sound escaped her, and she closed her mouth. With an indignant, breathy sigh, she turned to leave. Severus lowered the journal just slightly, lifting his chin to watch her disappear behind the curtain.

He did not expect her to turn to face him. He expected her to be angry, but her expression was flat, as though she felt nothing in that moment. Breathing in steadily, she steeled herself before speaking.

"I am going home. I will see you tomorrow morning, just as I will return Sunday morning, and every day following that to secure the secrecy of your identity until you are well," she said quietly, her amber eyes, glossy in the sunlight, searching his face.

With a subtle, indiscriminate nod, she turned on her heel once more and swept from the room. The door closed quietly behind her, the breeze whispering through his window brushing against the privacy curtain. The silent sound of the fabric as it swept against the floor was a painful reminder to Severus of his solitude.

Smoothing his calloused, bony hands across his face, Severus breathed in a heavy sigh. Her statement was intended to leave him feeling remorse, and for a fleeting moment, she had achieved her goal. He lowered his gaze to the journal in his lap, the emotionless mask of her face lingering in his thoughts.

Despite the fact his callousness was only intended to protect her from harm, he felt an uncomfortable twinge of regret. She had been unconditionally and impossibly kind towards him since the moment of his admission, going to such lengths to ensure his identity remain protected while she returned him to health. She understood, vaguely, the reasoning behind such secrecy (he could recall her voice as though she were in the room), but she had no grasp on the true gravity of the situation. He knew, begrudgingly, even if he wanted to disclose to her what exactly he had been doing the past six years – and what had earned him his stay in the hospital – she would be at grave risk.

Her thirst for knowledge – no matter how admirable – was not worth the risk to her life she would face were she to learn of Severus' mission. The mere fact that she was caring for him placed her in peril's way. Anything more was unthinkable, because anything more would stain his hands with her blood.

Hermione managed to protect herself behind her office door before breaking down into pitiful sobs. She pressed her weight against the surface of the door, her hands flexing around her vine wood wand. She had done so much for that man – plenty more than what was expected of her – to see that he was protected and comfortable while in her care. She had turned onto him affection she was no longer so certain he deserved. She had sacrificed her free time to see to it that he received proper, secure care while she was not scheduled to work. She had confided in him in hopes he would learn that he could trust her as well.

And yet, all of it had been for nothing. He insisted she had no need to know what happened to him to earn him such injuries; and even despite the fact many of his wounds were not healing, he still refused to disclose to her anything at all. He didn't trust her. He probably never would. If his intentions were to send her spiraling through an erratic flurry of emotions, he certainly succeeded.

Pulling her hands through her hair, Hermione lowered herself to the floor. She buried her face in her palms, her quiet sobs wracking her body. She could not explain her emotional reaction to what should have been expected callousness from Snape, but she could not stop the tears as they flowed down her cheeks.

She remained there in her crumpled position for longer than she should have allowed, quietly weeping into the fabric of her robes. She was no more ready to return home to Ron than she was to return to Severus' hospital room and for a fleeting moment, she considered camping out in her office for the evening.

Silently, she scoffed. She was a twenty-four-year-old woman – nearly twenty-five! – and Severus Snape still wielded the ability to reduce her to tears. It was as though he was still her dictatorial Potions professor and she the timid first year terrified to disappoint him. Slamming her fist against the floor, she released a choked laugh, hardly sincere and entirely sardonic.

Perhaps his six years of "death" had done nothing to change him; who was she to hope that it had? Slowly rising, Hermione rounded her desk, smoothing her hands along the surface. Her gaze flickered to the file she had placed in a locked drawer; flicking her wand at the lock, it quietly clicked, and the drawer slid open.

Lowering herself into the chair, Hermione fingered the thin folder of Severus Snape she had copied from the records room. Bringing it to the surface of her desk, she turned open the cover. The photograph of a younger, healthier Severus rested pinned to the folder; his dark, fathomless eyes stared up at her, his lip curling in a slight sneer as though he knew she was studying him.

"Why must you push me away?" she whispered quietly, turning the page.

Quickly, her eyes moved over the information in the file: his date of birth, his place of birth, allergies, previous injuries, and more. Hermione suspected he rarely sought treatment at a hospital after he received the Mark; after 1977, there were very few admission files. The next time he was treated – at St. Mungo's, anyway – was in 1984. He was stabbed on the right side of his chest, between his third and fourth ribs with a blade with an estimated width of four to six centimeters; the angle of insertion was awkward, puncturing the middle lobe of his lung.

Hermione brought her hand to her mouth as she read through the file; the scar she used to identify him was earned from that attack. A sad feeling washed over her, and fleetingly she wondered if he would tell her anything of the incident – though she knew she had no reason to suspect that he would. It was after Harry's parents were murdered; if she had her math correct, they would have been killed in 1981, and shortly before that Snape would have pledged his loyalty to Dumbledore. Voldemort would have already been weakened, though, and most of his followers sent to Azkaban; who would have attacked a seemingly harmless, albeit acrimonious, Hogwarts professor?

The man in the room upstairs was shrouded with mystery. And if he had his way, it would remain as such until he, once again, rested on his death bed, drinking in his final breath.

Folding the file once more, Hermione replaced it in the drawer of her desk. She did not have the energy – nor the desire – to walk home, and so instead, she turned to the hearth of her office, fisting a handful of Floo powder. Breathing in a steady breath, hesitant to return home to the same lonely apartment that seemed to be inhabited only by ghosts, she threw the powder into the grate and passed through the green flames.

As she emerged in the sitting room of her apartment, she spotted Ron in his usual perch, though he balanced an open book on his thighs. He cast her a welcoming glance before returning to the novel in his lap, and breathing a relieved sigh, Hermione lowered her purse to the floor and crossed the room to her beau.

As she lowered to the couch beside him, he folded the book closed and set it on the table. Reaching his hand to her face, he stroked the soft skin of her cheek affectionately before leaning in to kiss her. Hermione returned the gesture, willing the stiffness of her shoulders away; her body no longer reacted the way she believed it should in the presence of her fiancé, but with such lack of intimacy – she couldn't claim surprise without lying.

She couldn't explain the sudden wave of nausea that washed over her as she prepared to inform him that she would not be home for the weekend. There was something about his demeanor that evening – despite his tender kiss, he was cold, somehow – and she knew the discussion would lead nowhere pleasant. A part of her wanted to avoid the conversation entirely and simply retire for the evening, but she knew delaying the inevitable would only lead to further pain.

"Ron," Hermione began, turning her gaze from him to the blank television screen. "I'm going to be working this weekend."

Her eyes flickered closed against the violent bristle of his stiffening body. His hand abandoned her nearly immediately, his fingers curling into a fist in his lap.

"What?" Ron asked, his voice poisoned with anger. "Is this about that bloody patient?"

Turning to him, Hermione reached for him tenderly. His hand was tense and trembling beneath her gentle touch, and he only allowed her a moment before he pulled his hand from her. Hermione sighed, returning her hands to her lap, dropping her gaze to her nail beds; absently she began picking at her nails, wishing for genuine solitude.

"Ron, don't be angry. He needs me—"

"I need you, Hermione!"

Allowing her eyes to flicker closed, Hermione drank in a heavy breath, steadying her flaring temper. Resting her hand against his thigh – and hardly surprised when he jerked it from her reach – she searched his features. His pale, freckled face was twisted into an ugly, angry grimace, his ears flaring red. His arms were at his sides, as though he was ready to burst from the couch.

"Ronald, don't be foolish. You don't understand, he is very ill—"

"And there are other Healers that are more than capable of handling him," Ron spat, rising from the couch suddenly. "You've worked late every day this week, Hermione!"

"What has gotten into you?" Hermione cried, springing to her feet. "This is totally uncalled for!"

"Hardly," Ron growled, pacing before the television. "Maybe I wanted to do something this weekend."

Hermione nearly scoffed; Ron never wanted to do anything anymore. It was as though it was torture to even visit with Harry – and briefly, she wondered if Harry ever actually stopped by to see him. If he hadn't, she could hardly blame him; half the time, even Hermione dreaded returning to her apartment because she hadn't the energy to deal with the man.

"I'm sorry, Ron. There is no discussion; it's done," Hermione said, firmly. "He needs me more than you do."

She was not expecting Ron to storm off into their bedroom; she expected even less the quiet click of the lock that accompanied the violent slam of the door. While she could have easily unlocked the door, it was the silent gesture that really discouraged her from entering the bedroom. Lowering herself to the couch once more, Hermione released a heavy sigh. His reaction was far from warranted and even more irrational.

Leaning into the couch, Hermione allowed her head to roll against the back, her eyes staring into nothingness. There was a faint sting burning the backs of her eyes and her hands were trembling. A warm wetness dripped into her ears; she brought her hands to her face, brusquely brushing away the tears. She smoothed her soft palm across her forehead, combing her fingers through her hair. Between Snape's callous dismissal and Ron's irrational response, Hermione was feeling overwhelmingly hopeless, emotional, and lonely.

Ever since the day she began treating the poor man, she wondered what sorrows Snape had endured in the past seven years of his life. She knew they must have been far greater than anything she could comprehend. Yet, as she sat alone on the couch of her apartment, the forlorn feeling that filled her in that moment was incomparable to anything she had experienced before. Despite the man who rested in her bed at that very moment, Hermione felt completely alone.

She mused that it was possible she understood precisely how Severus Snape was feeling as he lay in his hospital bed. But for a moment, she wondered if she was not feeling worse; while he was quite literally alone, she possessed the heart of someone. And yet the feeling of lonesome that plagued her every evening as she entered her own home…

Severus was sitting in his bed, reclining against the stack of pillows he conjured to support his aching spine. Despite her wonderful massage, the stiffness in his body returned overnight – he highly doubted it would ever dissipate if he remained bedridden. In his lap, the latest edition of Alchemical Age lay opened, his dark eyes scanning the articles hungrily. Absently, he sipped from a steaming mug of black coffee, and a plate of fried eggs and toast rested by his thigh. His breakfast that morning seemed to arrive earlier than usual, though it was possible his Healer was late. With a cynical snort, Severus realized he based his entire concept of time on her punctual habits.

A quiet rapping sounded from the door, and – not wishing to violate routine, of course – Severus ignored it. If it was his Healer, she would enter regardless of his permission; and if it was anyone else – though she must have, at some point, requested he receive no other guests, seeing as even the nurse that visited his room the day he was admitted had never made another appearance – he would much rather them vacate his room immediately anyway.

Shifting his weight in the bed, attempting to remedy the stiffness in his legs and the tingling feeling arising in his lower back, Severus winced as he flexed his abdomen; an open wound, too stubborn to heal, gaped open.

"Good morning," he heard her call from the doorway. There was something peculiar in her voice, an intonation of irritation masked with cheer. "How are you feeling this morning?"

Holding his hand to her in a silencing gesture, Severus finished the paragraph he had been reading before looking up to her. She released a quiet 'tut' in disapproval, only furthering his suspicion that something was amiss, and while he knew it was none of his business – she had been doing strange things to him in the past few days he had been in her company – he couldn't help his piqued curiosity. Surely, she was not still sour over his umbrage the night previous?

When he finally raised his dark gaze to her, he brought the steaming mug of coffee to his lips, sipping quietly, watching her over the lip of the mug. There was shadowing around her eyes that was not there the day previous, as though she had a rather wretched night's sleep. Her fists rested against her hips, broadening her chest in an indignant way, and for a brief moment, he thought of Lily Evans. A small smile flickered across his face, just fleetingly, but she caught it.

"Despite your silence, you seem well," she commented, lowering her hands to her sides and coming to his bedside, lowering herself into the chair. "By now, I'm sure, you're aware of the routine. Is there anything I can get for you before we start?"

His ebony eyes flickered to the urinal, and she followed his gaze. "Ah, I suppose it would be beneficial if I taught you how to dispose of this. We can take care of that in a moment, unless you are in need of it now?"

"No," he growled, his oily voice finally beginning to regain its usual strength.

"Very well." Standing, she donned a pair of gloves before beginning her examination.

As she bustled about him, the breeze from the open window mingled with her scent, and it drew a cloud of pleasant aroma to his nose. Her perfume, her shampoo, and the pleasant scent that was simply her, combined with the flowering blossoms and fresh air from outside the window, created an absolutely enthralling redolence as it lingered before him. His depraved instinct drew his gaze to her subtly exposed breast, the modest neckline of her Healer robes offering just a teasing glimpse of the form that lurked beneath, and the combination of her alluring fragrance and the hidden promises of a voluptuous, beautiful, feminine form nearly inspired an unforgiveable reaction in the saturnine man, and he turned his head towards the ceiling, forcing his thoughts to grimmer places. It did not help that he could not keep from recalling the moment he ejaculated merely to the thought of her.

As she removed his gown, rolling it down to his lap – Severus praying to whatever gods believed placing them together would be even remotely entertaining – she exposed the various unhealing wounds. Her amber eyes flickered over the lacerations, her fingers delicately slipping along the edges; Severus grimaced as she pressed against the damaged tissue.

"Don't move," she commanded, and turning to the medicine cabinet she withdrew the devilish solution he had grown to abhor. Conjuring a sterile dropper, she cast him an apologetic glance, offering him the opportunity to prepare himself for the wave of agony that was to wash over him. Severus grasped the edges of the mattress, awaiting his torture.

"I thought you decided an alternative treatment was necessary," Severus growled, his eyes flickering between the precariously positioned dropper and the wounds she intended to treat.

"As you may recall," her voice was strangely acerbic, as though she had no desire to converse with him very much that morning. "I also noted that treatment was very limiting. I wish to exhaust all other options first."

"So you are postponing the inevitable?"

"Last I was aware, Sev," the acidic emphasis she placed on his name elicited a strange shiver through Severus' body. "You were not a Healer."

As she squeezed a few drops into the wounds, the solution began to foam, the pale smoke lifting from his flesh. Severus groaned in pain, his knuckles paling as he grasped tight to the mattress, his grip so fierce it was as though he was trying to transfer the pain from his body to the furniture below him. Once the pain subsided, she leveled her wand at the wound, recited the sing-song incantation.

His curiosity at her strange mood urged him to initiate a conversation, and the part of him that was very Slytherin convinced him she would answer his questions, if only because she was eager to earn his trust. While their conversation may have continually deepened with each passing day, Severus was rarely one to initiate it; surely this small detail would not go unnoticed by his Healer – and he had, after all, dismissed her quite harshly the night before. If he knew Hermione Granger – and, if she had not changed much within the past seven years – he knew she would be willing to cast aside their differences if it meant talking with him on an equal basis.

"May I pose… an inquiry?" he began, the oily resonance of his voice an intentional tool.

"Yes, of course," Granger replied, her hands gingerly pressing in on healing wounds.

He was impressed that she had concealed so well her surprise at his speech – there was a slight shrill pitch to her voice, but it was the only indication she was at all eager to speak with him – but it truly only aided in his desire.

"Something seems…" The deliberate pause was crucial to pique her interests. "…amiss with you, Ms. Granger."

If he hadn't been so hungrily seeking her reaction, he may have missed the incredibly subtle pause of her hands in her examination. She had removed his left leg from the warmth of his covers, her hands pressing in against his inner thigh, palpating his femoral pulse. She released the pressure just slightly at his question, her eyes still fixated on his thigh. And then she pressed firmly against the artery once more; it was a movement so fleeting, he wouldn't have even noticed it if he weren't searching for a sign.

"That is quite observant of you, Sev," she replied, a sudden coldness to her voice that he had nearly forgotten she could muster. She had only brandished it a handful of times before, and he had only been witness to it through the shadows; it was the tone she had used with Draco Malfoy. It was painfully familiar to Severus, as well, having heard a very similar intonation in Lily's voice the day she parted ways with him.

"As it turns out, I am quite incapacitated at the current time…" Severus said, silkily. "I would have no choice but to act as an attentive audience."

She had moved around the bed as he spoke to her, her small hands manipulating his long leg. He was vaguely aware of the ache in his joints, something he had come to accept as an artifact of his age and the daily abuse his body endured. With his leg bent at the knee, her hand supporting his foot as she tested his flexibility and joint rotation, she leaned into the appendage, her eyes fixed on his face. A small crease pressed itself into her smooth forehead, and she seemed to be considering his offer.

Under her suspicious eye, he gently shrugged his shoulders, his eyebrows raised in a nonchalant, lackadaisical expression. Her hands travelled up his abdomen to his arm, where she extended his arm to his side, bending it at the elbow and then rotating it at the shoulder. Her careful eyes studied his face intently, as though judging his motives. When she released his limb, he offered another shrug, finally turning from her to retrieve the journal she placed on his table. He pulled a piece of toast from the plate there as well, picking it apart and eating it slowly.

"You'll forgive my suspicion, Sev," she said softly. "I have never known you to willingly concern yourself with the personal affairs of your students."

"I thought it was quite obvious, Ms. Granger," he replied with a similarly soft tone. "You are no longer my student."

"Despite your declaration yesterday evening?" The harsh intonation of her voice was not missed on him; she intended the comment to sting subtly, and while it was a well-played move, Severus simply smirked.

"It is not you posing the question, now, is it?"

For a moment, she seemed to consider him. Her warm amber eyes glittered in the bright morning light, flickering over his face as though desperately searching for his sincerity. She circled the bed, retrieving his standard cocktail of medications from the cabinet. As she handed him the goblet, she lowered herself into the chair beside him.

"You are going to think I am the most unprofessional Healer in this hospital," she said, an apologetic tone in her voice. She sunk her face into her hands, her fingers combing through the crown of her barely-manageable hair.

As Severus swallowed his usual prescription potions, his dark gaze studied her face over the lip of the goblet. She was slumped forward in the chair, her elbows resting against her knees and a very teasing view of her cleavage peeked out above the neckline of her robes. She was not looking at him, though; her gaze was fixated on the floor, a heavy sigh swelling her chest.

"As much as I am loath to admit it, you and I share a certain intimacy that is impossible for others to understand," Severus said, softly; she retrieved the goblet from him, rising to replace it on the cabinet. "Not only have you believed for a significant portion of your life that you witnessed my death, you are the sole bearer of the knowledge that I am, in fact, alive. We are, for lack of a better word, inexorably connected."

She stood with her back to him, her hands fussing with the various vials of his medicine cabinet. He suspected she was chewing her lip as she always did when she was anxious; a small nod lifted her chin and she turned towards him. Her jaw tensed, the subtle tremor of the musculature in her face twitching as she clenched her teeth.

"I suppose you're right."

Her statement was followed by a long pause, and after awhile Severus returned his attention to the journal in his lap, his teeth slowly pulling apart the remaining piece of toast. He knew she was still considering his offer; the metaphorical wheels of her mind seemed to be incessantly turning as her amber eyes surveyed his features.

She finally returned to the chair beside him, the whisper of her robes and the quiet groan of the chair as it supported her weight violating the silence of the room. There were several instances where she drew in a sharp breath, suggesting she was going to begin speaking; he turned his eyes to her subtly, and when she seemed to sink into her chair once more without a word, he returned his attention to the article he was reading.

"I am seriously considering leaving Ron," she said finally, her voice so rushed the words barely registered as separate entities. Her voice faltered on his name, a weakened crack as she formed the sound, and he knew that at any moment, she may begin weeping.

It was certainly not his intention when he began prying into her personal life. He should have known it was a topic he should have left well enough alone, but the door was opened, and he knew he couldn't back down. Slowly turning his face to her, his dark eyes scanning her features, he offered her a simple and slow nod, inviting her to continue.

"When I finally arrived home last night – and I travelled by Floo, I couldn't even muster the energy to walk home, even though it's barely a kilometer away – he was sitting there on the couch. Like always," she confessed, a heavy sigh heaving her chest. "I can only handle so much. I've seen all the same as he has; granted, he lost his brother, but even George is doing better than Ron. Six years ago! There's no call for it!"

Severus nodded. Uncertain of an appropriate reaction, he forced a sympathetic expression, and watched her as she leaned back in her chair, her arms hanging loosely to her sides.

"I told him I was working this weekend and he was very upset about it," she said, her voice weak.

"If I were so bold to assume," Severus growled, his fingers curling the edges of the journal. "It did not seem as though he were one to do much on the weekend, anyway."

"That is exactly why I thought his reaction unwarranted," Hermione said softly, an icy bitterness chilling her voice. "He locked me out of our bedroom, and though I could have easily unlocked the door—"

"Volumes are spoken in one's behaviors, Ms. Granger," Severus interjected. "Our language is very limiting. Often, our actions are all we have."

"And his intention was quite clear last night." Hermione released a rather unladylike snort. "'Sod off.'"

Nodding slowly, Severus returned his gaze to the pages before him. A cool breeze drifted through the open window, curling the privacy curtain as it was caught in its draft. Hermione's hair twirled around her face as she lowered her gaze to her lap. She was nervously picking at her fingers, and as Severus watched her, a small, subtle smile tugged at his mouth.

"I don't want his family to believe I am a wretched person for abandoning him," she said sadly, a sigh escaping her.

"If it is your life, Ms. Granger; you should live it for you." There was more truth in his words than she would ever recognize. "Life is painfully short, and it does not do one well to live by the wishes of others."

Her gaze lifted to him, her eyes wide as though she was surprised he would offer her any sort of consolation whatsoever; he could not blame her, either, as his correspondence with her had been unpredictable at best. He held her gaze only for a moment before returning his attention to the journal in his hands. She released a soft sigh, weighted beyond all recognition, her small hands wringing in her lap.

"What would you do?" she asked quite suddenly, the rushed tone of her voice pressing her words more rapidly than she intended.

His flickering gaze focused on a single word in the article he had been absently reading, the question registering in his mind and requiring much longer than a moment's notice to answer. Slowly, he lifted his face to hers, his furrowed brow exaggerating the fine wrinkles around his eyes and deepening the lines of his forehead. Folding his hands on top of the journal, he simply considered her for a moment. Her pretty face seemed aged in her distress; the shadows around her eyes and the wrinkle pressed into her furrowed brow matured her appearance.

"You are asking the wrong man, Ms. Granger," he growled, turning his attention back to the periodical in his lap. "I am a hypocrite."

"Yes, you are," Hermione replied coldly. Severus' eyes narrowed as he shot her a glare, but she simply offered him a familiar lackadaisical shrug. "But we are, of course, speaking hypothetically."

"Hypothetically speaking," Severus began, clearing his throat of the gravelly irritation that began to scratch at the tissue. "I would not have been in such a situation in the first place." Returning his gaze to the journal in his lap, he tore off a piece of toast in his teeth, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Hermione released an exasperated sigh, standing from her chair and turning a shoulder to her patient. She reached for his chart at the end of the bed, conjuring a quill and recording her notes, a scornful glare cast over the brim of the folder at the man in the bed. Severus could nearly feel the simmering anger that threatened to burst from her small form.

"I will bestow upon you an… interesting piece of wisdom once offered to me by an old friend," Severus offered, a hint of caution in his voice.

He always took the advice of Albus with a grain of salt, never truly certain whether the Machiavellian man's intentions were pure. He watched for her expression; the tension in her shoulders relaxed just slightly, and the scratching of her quill ceased as she stilled her hand.

"Flip a coin. I have one here, if you'd like."

The folder lowered enough to expose her puzzled expression, her furrowed brow pressing that small crease deeper and deeper into her forehead. He wondered, fleetingly, if she was aware of how expressive her eyes truly were.

"As the coin is in the air, you will realize that your path forward is much clearer."

"Are you suggesting that this is so simple a decision that I could solve it with such a menial act?" Hermione's voice was harsh, venomous with anger.

She slammed the folder down on his bedside table, the force of air breezing the pages of his journal; the silverware rattled violently against the plate. There was a subtle tremor in her hands as she held them at her sides, balled into fists.

He shook his head slowly, her anger poisoning his own sense of calm. He lifted his mug of coffee, the black liquid having cooled since she entered, and he sipped from it as he watched her. There was a glittering in her gaze and as he studied her face, he noticed her eyes were brimming with tears as she towered over him.

"It's an interesting psychological phenomenon, really," Severus amended, lowering the mug to his lap, wrapping his hands around the cooling ceramic. "You may be uncertain of what you should do, but as soon as you believe you've left the option to Fate's curious workings, you understand precisely what it is you wish to happen." Setting the cup beside the plate on his bedside table, he flicked through the journal to the page he had been reading. "We, as human beings, function in a very simplistic manner. We need only food and water to survive, but happiness seems to be incredibly valuable to a life well-lived. It often guides our choices – even subconsciously. Irrationally."

As he was speaking, Hermione had slowly lowered herself into her chair once more, her gaze carefully studying his features, painfully searching for his sincerity. Her fury with him had all but dissipated, her tremulous hands finally stilled; and as he spoke, she simply listened with an intent ear.

Slipping his fingers into the small breast pocket of his hospital gown, Severus removed the fake Galleon she had given him what seemed eons ago. Holding it between his first two fingers, he extended his hand to her, forcing a compassionate smile (and it was a challenging feat, indeed – he wasn't sure if it was ever an expression he sincerely wore). She leaned back in her chair, her eyes flickering from his face to his hand and then back to his face. Her hand cautiously met his, and she pulled the coin from his grasp, her fingers brushing against his, an incredulous expression haunting her face.

"Face for leaving," he suggested, his attention turned to the journal in his lap.

Hermione nodded slowly, and as she set the coin on her thumb, her face blanched as though her heart ceased functioning. She flicked it, her eyes carefully following its path into the air; it was as though the coin turned in the air under a slowing charm, rolling circles infinitely while her mind whirled, her heart fluttered, and her stomach churned. She thought she may vomit as the coin twirled in the air, never seeming to fall under the influence of gravity.

Severus, feeling mischievously playful, cast a silent charm that maintained the perpetual roll of the coin in the air. Hermione's face seemed to drain of its color as her amber eyes stared intently on the coin. He couldn't stop the quiet chuckle that escaped him as he heard her breath catch in her throat; he peered at her from the corner of his eye, his mouth tugging into a satisfied smirk. Her eyes narrowed into a glare as she turned her gaze to him; while she was distracted, he released the coin from his charm and it finally dropped to her lap. With a start, her gaze lowered to the coin on her thigh, and she breathed an ambiguous sigh.

"Well?" Severus queried, his gaze still scanning the contents of the journal.

"Face," she whispered.

"And more importantly, which did you find yourself pining for?" Severus pressed, his flickering gaze frozen on the page.

"Face," Hermione admitted, her voice wavering with the threat of tears.

Severus was wiser than to risk upsetting her further, and so he said nothing. He lowered the journal to rest against his legs and watched her face, her proud features slowly crumbling. Her amber eyes brimmed with tears, and as she slowly raised her gaze from the coin on her leg to his face, the first set of tears leaked onto her cheeks.

"Do you still love him, Ms. Granger?" Severus asked, his dark eyes searching her face.

She bated her breath, her lower lip trembling as she held his gaze, tears trailing down her pretty face. He knew the gravity of the question; the pure weight and significance of her answer would truly mark the remainder of her choices involving the young man. It was not a simple answer; it was never an answer of "yes" or "no." And as her eyes flickered over his features, hungrily studying the defining characteristics of his countenance, she chewed her lip, a subtle tremor of her chin conveying all he needed to know of the thoughts that ran through her head.

Lowering her gaze to her lap, she picked up the Galleon and placed it on the open page. He did not look away from her, and she gently, barely shook her head in her reply. The word that escaped her parted lips was so quiet, so soft, it was a whisper of a whisper: "No."

Before she could lose her composure, she rose from the chair, bidding her patient a good morning and informing him she would return in a couple hours for his next dose of medicine. And then she was gone, the quiet click of the door behind her abandoning Severus in his hospital room, her lingering scent mingling with his own confounded emotions.
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Potions, Plans, and Second Chances