Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Unintentional Inveiglement	By : onecelestialbeing Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 130141 -:- Recommendations : 8 -:- Currently Reading : 30
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Harry Potter and it's characters and making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 56
- 57
- 58
A/N: Update on my crazy life: the delays are NOT intentional, I assure you. However, due to the nature of my work (something that keeps me busy and exhausted when I get it at nearly midnight) I'm only able to write a little bit at a time. So I say this so say that while I won't be able to update as fast as I'd like, I happily remind you that I am writing every day to keep this thing going :D
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE REVIEWS! For those who have just hopped on board and read this story in TWO DAYS OR LESS...bless you! I am so sorry for keeping you from eating, sleeping, cleaning, cooking, neglecting pets, spouses, and children, but I am tickled pink all the same.
I know there was slight discourse about how much I'd blatantly used from DH in the last chapter and that is actually something that I HATE doing but because I wanted it to be strictly canon, I felt like an idiot merely changing a few words just for that purpose, so I left certain bits as is. From here on out, however, everything is strictly up to my imagination and only a few things will be canon. This means what? Hehehehhee, you'll see.
Warnings for this chapter: mentions of blood, a mention J,UST a mention of rape, and obviously mentions of torture.
So now I will shut up. Please enjoy, and again I thank you for your kind words and encouragement!

A long time ago Snape made a promise to himself that he would never again cry for another. He never wanted to get close to anyone—not that there had been many opportunities—but to allow another in on a deep and personal level meant having to deal with all the messy sentiment and trivialities. Coming across his former best friend's body was unforgettable, doubly considering his part in her death.
Every bit of misery that Snape experienced since that day, he accepted, knowing that any amount of retribution would not be nearly enough to absolve him of his former crimes.
However, being made to carry the bloodied, lifeless form of the person who loved him, whom he loved in return, was not only unconscionable, but unmerciful.
No matter how unbalanced the scales seemed to be, Snape understood with harsh clarity that if Hermione were truly dead, no amount of charms, prayers or potions would bring her back to life. Even so, he refused to let her go. Hot tears streamed down his face, each drop landing softly atop Hermione's head. A long time passed before his sobs tapered off and harsh gasps as he tried to catch his breath permeated the thick silence.
The spell he'd cast with their wands was supposed to protect her. There were stories of witches and wizards who had been precariously close to death's door, and if not for that very spell, they would have crossed the one-way threshold. Snape knew that Bellatrix had ordered Leofric to bring Hermione directly to him. If she was also Hermione's attacker, Snape assumed that Bellatrix had taken Hermione's wand before subjecting the girl to her sadistic whims.
The path to understanding the reason for Bellatrix's actions was a short one: Bellatrix saw fit to torture and kill anyone who she deemed to be beneath her, more so if they were half-blood or Muggleborn. Be that as it may, two things stood out in his mind; Bellatrix hadn't killed Hermione, for reasons he could not yet fathom, and while her torture was expected, somehow it seemed personal.
"All my fault...it's all my fault..."
Each time Snape lifted his head to look at Hermione, the unbearable image of her lying in a sprawl on the floor, defenceless and in agony, came to mind. That caused him to scream louder, sending Loki and Crookshanks, who had crept out to investigate, scampering back into the bedroom. The Disillusionment charm Snape cast on himself and Hermione had long dropped as his magic crackled around the room from the insurgent outpouring of his emotions. Books sprang from their shelves, the chair behind his desk became overturned, and papers flew from the wooden surface, fluttering to the floor in a scattered pile. A few times the flames burning in the hearth spewed out into the room, but dwindled before they had the chance to burn anything.
Snape was completely oblivious to his destroyed sitting room. Everything hurt and he wished he were dead, knowing that there was no way he would be able to survive this second blow. His grief-stricken bellows eventually tapered off, yet the damage was done even though Snape was barely aware of his raw throat. A slight pressure made him lift his head, and through tear-blurred eyes he found Crookshanks standing on his leg, his yellow eyes focused on Hermione's half-hidden face. There was a moment of dithering on the feline's part, before he sauntered his way up the professor's leg and inserted himself between the two. It didn't matter that Hermione was covered in blood and almost unrecognisable—Crookshanks clearly knew who lie in Snape's arms, because he began nuzzling his furry face against Hermione's, his small, rough tongue slipping out to scrape against her dirt smudged cheek.
Sniff sniff sniff.
Snape wanted to bellow for the cat to move. He wanted to be alone with Hermione, not wanting to share her with anyone, not even with a creature of a four-legged variety. Loki had also come back out but having no idea who the young woman was, he was disinclined to investigate, staying off to the side and entertaining himself by licking his right front leg.
"Go away, damn it," Snape snarled, hoisting himself from his sea of grief long enough to snap at the ginger half-kneazle when his bottlebrush tail poked him in the eye. But Crookshanks didn't go away nor did he move. The headmaster growled, in no mood to pander to the arbitrary animal, and lifted a hand to nudge him away, and it was at that moment when he felt a weak stream of warm air against his fingertips.
She's alive.
There was no way Snape could utter the words, not wanting to risk being made to eat them a second later. But as he tipped Hermione's head back in his hand, lowering his ear to her nose, the proof was inevitably there. Hermione was in fact breathing, albeit shallowly, and the sound was so sweet to his ears, giving the older wizard such relief that he cried outright, startling both cats and causing them to dart across the room and hide beneath the desk.
"Come on, Hermione, open your eyes," Snape begged after lifting her to the small, hard sofa in the middle of the room. "Open your eyes, love," he whispered, patting her cheek. "Please, sweetheart, open your eyes." Yet none of his gentle words, pleas, or light, rapid slaps to Hermione's face, delivered lastly in a fit of desperation, was enough to rouse her.
The smear of red left on Hermione's cheek reminded Snape that his hands were still covered in her blood, the thick, coppery scent hanging in the air and flooding his nose. Snape numbly rose from Hermione's side, in complete disbelief at her state as more deep red bloomed through her clothes. A wave of nausea hit him yet he resisted the urge, swallowing it down while telling himself that he had no time to be ill. He did not want to leave Hermione for so much as a second and even as he stood in the doorway of his bathroom, his eyes refused to leave the hurt, unconscious girl bleeding into the folds of his best teaching robes. Short work was made of filling his bathtub with a few inches of tepid water, during which Snape hastily stripped down to his shirtsleeves, carelessly tossing his frock coat aside.
After rolling both sleeves of his white shirt up past his forearms, Snape carefully moved Hermione to his bedroom, which was lit brighter than usual. Dozens of floating candles illuminated her chalk-white face, smatterings of blood standing out shockingly among her features. Not wanting to risk injuring her any further, Snape used his wand to sever away her clothing bit by bit, dropping everything to the floor. Leofric had pointed out in the crudest way possible that Hermione had had an accident, but he'd been telling the truth: her jeans were soaked with urine. Her tatty bra and knickers joined the heap of ruined denim, followed by a shirt and sweatshirt that was unlikely to be salvageable. Bruises and angry lashes lined the length of Hermione's underweight body, a few of them bisecting the old scar between her breasts. The sadistic bastard that tortured her had also carved the word 'Mudblood' into her forearm, and Snape balled both hands into fists, seeing red as his ire rose again to unmentionable heights.
If Bellatrix did this, she is going to pay for this. I don't give a damn if she is Narcissa's sister, I'm going to rip out her fucking throat and gut her like a fish.
Phial after phial of Dittany was Summoned to heal each wound. Blood-Replenishing Potion was also Summoned, and Hermione choked silently on the bitter droplets in her unconscious state. The tiny glass phials littering the bed clattered to the floor, a couple breaking beneath Snape's feet as he rushed to prop up Hermione's head, patting her on the back until her soundless coughing ceased. He finally managed to make her finish the remaining liquid by pouring small increments into her mouth, massaging her throat to encourage swallowing.
It seemed as though there was no end to Hermione's injuries. Besides deep teeth marks in her bottom lip, the inside of her mouth proved to be saturated with deep red. Snape used a thumb to carefully pry her jaws apart, almost forgetting to breathe when he saw the partially severed tongue, and his wand was quickly used to remedy the situation. Next he mended the ring and little fingers that were bent at an awkward angle on Hermione's left hand, as well as her misplaced nose. The bones slid into place with an audible crack, and it was a testament as to how dead to the world Hermione was, because not once did a glimmer of pain register on her face. By far this was one of the hardest things he'd ever been forced to do; Snape didn't think it possible for his fury to run deeper than it already was, but it happened upon finding further marks on Hermione's body, escalating to the nth degree when his black eyes fell upon the crude word that had been carved into her forearm.
Too much, this was entirely too much. Snape's knees almost gave out and he wobbled unsteadily, feeling as though all the air had been sucked out the room. His wand clattered to the floor as he reached out to grab onto a bedpost to keep from falling. The other tightened around the Dittany, clenching and squeezing until the fragile glass broke with a dull crunch, leaving splinters in his palm. Snape's hand bled considerably, although the spilt Dittany immediately healed the wounds. The professor remained unaware the entire time, not realising that he'd become angry to the point of shaking. It took an insurmountable of control before he was able to calm down, Summon another bottle of Dittany, and continue examining Hermione with a clinical detachment. Snape took care to be extra thorough, and not one part of her body was left out of his intense scrutiny.
There had been a time when Snape considered the possibility of him and Hermione crossing paths again. He refused to get his hopes up, knowing that the chances were slim to nil, but even if the scales were to tip in his favour, he would have hoped for at least a bittersweet reunion. This homecoming, however, was grossly different from what he'd envisioned. Temporarily forgetting about the falling state of the world by getting lost in one another would have been ideal, not healing the multitude of injuries inflicted upon his young lover and parting her bruised, bloodied thighs, delicately checking to make sure that she hadn't been raped. It was bad enough that Hermione had been tortured into a state of incoherency, and Snape vowed that he would get his revenge on whoever had done this to her, but if someone had dared to violate his precious witch in the most cruellest of ways, then to hell if it was another mark on his already blackened soul, he would torture and kill the perpetrator with his bare hands and without a second thought.
Save your mutinous thoughts for another day, old man, Snape reminded himself. Right now your woman needs you.
There were no words to convey how grateful Snape was to learn that Hermione had not been molested. Once he was finished with his examination, Snape covered Hermione with the sheets, finding it difficult to look at her battered, naked form for another minute. He had seen her body enough times to know it as well as the back of his hand; he could count the freckles on her nose, recall how her right big toe was slightly asymmetrical with the left, and describe in perfect detail the birthmark behind her left knee. However, in light of what she'd been put through, it seemed wrong and tasteless to leave her so exposed, even to his eyes.
The Dittany had done its job and Snape hoped that Hermione would not be left with many scars, remembering how self-conscious she had been in the beginning about the one lining her sternum. Before he allowed himself to become riled again, Snape mentally pointed out that his next task should entail ridding Hermione's skin of its remaining dirt and dried bodily fluids. This feat was not easy, as he had to keep her head cradled in his arm the way one would bathe an infant, while the rest of her remained submersed in the bathtub. His left hand trembled as he took great pains with a flannel, using one corner to cleanse her cheeks of blood, grime, and dried tear tracks. There was the issue of washing the blood from her hair and scalp; his fingers became tangled in the knotted strands, and he did his best to keep from ripping them out. Then he didn't know what to do with the wayward curly mass once it began to dry, and a bit of cord was used to loosely bind it behind her head.
Hermione remained unaware throughout the entire process of being washed and having salve liberally applied and massaged into every inch of her previously torn, yet still bruised skin. She was oblivious of the clean bandage concealing the ugly word on her arm, the long, grey nightshirt now covering her body, as well as the tender manner of the man tucking her into the centre of his bed once he finished dressing her. Yet had Snape been in his right mind, he definitely would have noticed the way the Hermione's lashes fluttered the tiniest bit when his thin lips brushed against her forehead.
Snape levitated a chair to where he was standing, exhaling as he collapsed into it. He kicked off his boots and nudged off his socks with his toes, exhausted beyond the point of coherency. His eyes felt scratchy and raw, as though sand had been poured into them, and his aching bones yearned for the softness of a mattress instead of a leather armchair, whose cushion became quite incommodious after some time, yet he could not bring himself to share the bed with Hermione. Undressing her had revealed a protruding ribcage and hipbones that jutted out more than he remembered, and she looked too small, too frail, tipped on her side and nearly lost beneath the huge swath of his duvet cover. Her pale face and tangled hair were the only things visible from his vantage point and Snape felt like a lecher for staring at her, as if unsure what his next move should be. He was sure that one false move in the midst of slumber would leave Hermione with a new injury, and opted to remain in his armchair at the side of the bed with his wand in hand. In spite of his fear about sleeping next to her, Snape was unable to keep his eyes off Hermione's sleeping form. Eventually his eyes fell shut, and when he reopened them, immediately looking to the bed, he saw Hermione flanked by Loki and Crookshanks. Both cats seemed to have a little more respect for the young woman; their tails were at a safe distance and not beneath her nose or draped over her eyes, much unlike the positions in which they slept with the headmaster.

Seeing that there was no change in Hermione's condition, Snape ignored the kink in his neck that came from sleeping upright and shut his eyes. He had drifted off again when the sound of something falling to the bedroom floor jerked him awake. Again his first instinct was to look towards Hermione, but this time instead of finding her lying quietly, he was met with the sight of her violently convulsing body at the very edge of the mattress.
"Shit!" Snape swore, rushing over just as Hermione tipped out of bed and landed in his outstretched arms. His bare foot came down on one of the empty Dittany bottles, instantly shattering it and causing glass splinters to become lodged in his heel. Snape ignored the cutting sensation, too preoccupied with finding something to shove between Hermione's tightly clenched teeth to keep her from biting her tongue again.
At first Snape hadn't been sure what sort of torture Hermione had undergone, but now he knew without doubt that at least one form involved the Cruciatus Curse. He was all too familiar with the after effects of Crucio, having woken up on the hard floor of his bedroom or sitting room more times than he cared to remember. It took some years before he found a way to ward off the convulsions, yet he still had to deal with the nerve-wracking pain that was always present afterwards.
Hermione had clearly been tortured for a length of time, much longer than Snape ever experienced. He felt worthless and helpless, knowing that there was nothing he could do except protect her head until she finished shaking. The tendons stood out in Hermione's neck as she writhed and contorted uncontrollably, her breath coming in noisy, uncontrollable spurts as her back arched audibly to the brink of breaking. When the tremors finally died away Hermione went limp in his arms, her head rolling to one side.
Snape reasoned that he shouldn't be so unnerved by watching Hermione going through the throes of a fit, yet those two minutes felt like the longest of his life. Matters were made worse when he carefully used both palms to guide Hermione's head straight, and looked down to find her eyes partly open. Fear and confusion swam beneath the pain in those brown eyes, and was enough to cut him root-deep.
"It's alright, Hermione," he reassured, surprised to hear his hoarse voice wavering when he saw a fat, single teardrop trickling down the side of her face. "There's nothing to worry about, I'm here. I'll look after you."
Snape had no idea if Hermione knew where she was, or if she even recognised the face above hers. She was too weak to cry and her sobs were muted, even as tears began streaming steadily from both eyes. Snape was unaccustomed to comforting and had no idea if his actions were helping, and everything that came to mind sounded foolish, so he kept quiet, even though his fingertips smoothed across her perspiration-dotted temple and forehead. His hands were unsteady for the full five minutes they remained on the floor, stroking continuously as though his touch alone would take away all of Hermione's pain.
"You're safe. No one is going to hurt you again," Snape quietly promised, his eyes never leaving hers. His caresses eventually seemed to calm her senses and she slowly closed her eyes again, inhaling shakily when the professor used his thumb to wipe the remaining tears from her cheeks.
Once Hermione had fallen into a sound sleep, Snape placed her back into bed. This time he stayed with her, moving to her side after taking off his shirt that was soiled with her blood. It was utterly disheartening to look at Hermione, not without feeling again that this was somehow his fault. How many times had he told Hermione she was just a child? Snape had lost count. The only reason he'd uttered such tripe was to keep her from flinging headfirst into some sticky situation, only to find out that she was less capable than she thought. But Snape knew that Hermione was an adult who had the wits and common sense to match her streak of brashness; sometimes he'd actually thought of her as invincible. Yet, at some point that evening she had been faced with the fact that she, like anyone else made of flesh and blood, no matter how valiant or clever, could be beaten. Most of the time when she'd gotten into a scrape with her friends, Snape had been more annoyed than anything by their recklessness, but to now see Hermione defeated and pushed past her breaking point, left him crushed and feeling just as defeated and broken.
Snape's tears were quieter this time, and didn't last as long as when he'd first taken Hermione into his arms.
The headmaster attempted to stay awake in the event Hermione reopened her eyes. Yet she remained listless throughout the night, never displaying a hint of awareness, not even when she'd broken into a fever and sweated completely through her nightshirt, leaving the bedclothes saturated. There was more manoeuvring on Snape's part; first to wrestle Hermione out of her soaked nightshirt and into a fresh one, then cradling her in his lap while he used his wand to dry the bed. Another hour was spent continuously wiping her damp, flushed face while another cloth that had been dipped in ice water was pressed to the back of her neck.
The fever clung to Hermione's body like sticky vines to a brick wall. Around five in the morning it broke, and her cheeks retained their normal colour. Even then Snape fought to keep alert, remembering the many times Hermione had looked over his bruised and pathetic form, but his body's need for rest won and he collapsed facedown onto the pillows with his hand covering hers.
Now something was tickling his forehead. Believing it to be one of the cats, he blindly reached out to push them away. However, instead of fur his fingertips brushed against what felt like a jumper covering a small body.
"Headmaster Snape, sir?"
That was definitely not the voice of a cat, unless Loki and Crookshanks had skills they'd been hiding. The headmaster grudgingly cracked open one bloodshot eye. Instinct made him want to reach for his wand, but besides being too fatigued to do so, something else told him that his life was not in danger. Indeed, through the dim light for most of the candles had burned out, he found a house-elf standing on his bed, hovering over him, dressed in his usual odd assortment of clothing and knitted accessories.
"You has Harry Potter's and Wheezy's friend, sir!" the squeaky voice trilled. "She is the one giving Dobby his hats and socks. Harry Potter will be ever so happy to hear that his friend is alive!"
Dobby spoke at a rapid pace while peering over at Hermione. Snape blinked at the house-elf, trying to make his mismatched socks, tea cosy hatted, goggled-eyed form come into focus. That was not easy, as the elf continued flitting from one side of the bed to the next, treading on Loki's tail (he and Crookshanks had been sleeping at the end of the bed) and causing him to let out a warning hiss.
"Dobby, slow down," Snape commanded in a rough voice, sitting up and holding up a hand. "What are you rambling on about?"
"Miss Hermione, sir. Harry Potter thought she was dead after..." Dobby paused to wring his knobbly little hands and continued speaking in a tortured-sounding whisper, "After what happened at the house of my old masters..."
Snape swallowed hard upon hearing the mention of Dobby's former master. He didn't want to ask what the elf knew but forced himself to speak.
"What happened at Malfoy Manor?"
Dobby's large eyes began glistening with tears, and he reached up to grab hold of his pointy ears.
"Bad things, sir, very bad things! Harry Potter and his Weezy called Dobby to help them escape. Dobby's old master locked them in the dungeon. Dobby heard that Bellatrix Lestrange was hurting Miss Hermione, but Dobby had to help Harry Potter's other friends escape first, sir. By the time Dobby and Harry Potter tried to help Miss Hermione, Dobby was unable to get back inside."
"Unable to? What do you mean, unable to? Since when is a house-elf's magic fallible?"
Snape did his best to not raise his voice when he saw Dobby cowering. Dobby wasn't the one who had left Hermione in such a deeply afflicted state—Bellatrix, the hateful bitch, was responsible for that. For months the house-elf had been nothing but helpful, even if his ebullience was at times a bit much to stomach.
Dobby had boldly approached the headmaster shortly after Dumbledore's death, wanting to know if he would still have a job for the next school term. Not that Snape would have gotten rid of the elf, as he definitely had his uses. Later on Dobby somehow sussed out that Snape had been secretly helping Potter all along (Snape strongly suspected Dumbledore's portrait had something to do with that), and after being accosted by the elf and confirming that he was, in fact, privately looking out for the young wizard, the headmaster was forever in Dobby's good graces. Snape had one condition, which was that Dobby never tell Potter or anyone about his actions. From that day forward, Dobby was his annoyingly helpful ally, offering his assistance to the headmaster at a moment's notice. It felt strange to have someone on his side, good, almost, even if it was always 'Harry Potter' this and 'Harry Potter' that, and a few times Snape asked the elf when his and Potter's engagement would be announced.
"A house-elf's magic can only be stopped by another elf's, sir," Dobby explained. "Dobby does not know what happened, but he was unable to Apparate to help save Miss."
Dobby looked ready to cry again, and Snape hastily interrupted the start of his loud sniffling.
"It's alright, Dobby, I don't blame you. Miss Granger is safe now and that is the most important thing."
"'Tis true, sir, 'tis true." Dobby lifted an arm that was covered in a too-long knitted sleeve and used it to wipe his nose. "Can Dobby help with anything, sir?"
"Yes, Dobby. But first, I need you to promise that you will not tell anyone about Miss Granger being here."
"Dobby won't tell, sir. Dobby won't tell a soul."
"No one, Dobby, especially Potter and his ... Wheezy. If you truly wish to help Potter and his friends you must keep this a secret between us. You do want to help him, don't you?"
"Oh yes, sir, yes! Dobby would do anything for Harry Potter!"
"Very good, Dobby. Remember what I said—between us."
"Dobby remembers, sir. But headmaster, sir, what happens if Harry Potter begs Dobby to help him find his Miss?"
Snape glanced over at Hermione's sleeping form and then back at the house-elf.
"You may tell him that Miss Granger is safe, if he is in dire need of that information, but nothing else. Doing so puts all of us at danger, especially Potter. You wouldn't want to do anything that might harm him, would you?"
"No!" Dobby squeaked, looking scandalised.
"I thought as much."
"So does the headmaster need Dobby's help right now?"
Yes; do you have any experience running a school? And while you're at it, Dumbledore's many secret errands will need tending to, as well as someone to take my place when the Dark Lord is met with the sudden whim for a three a.m. meeting.
"Yes, actually, I do," Snape answered, thinking back to Dobby's earlier mention of 'bad things' that occurred at Malfoy Manor. "I need to know who else you saw at the manor and if you heard anything, even if you think it doesn't sound important. I also need to know where you took Potter and Weasley after helping them to escape."
Dobby was unable to remember Ollivander's name, but Snape knew who the man was by the elf's description. Luna Lovegood was among the group of prisoners, which Snape had already known. Lovegood, Potter, and Weasley had been taken to Shell Cottage, a place that had sometimes been mentioned during meetings for the Order. It was a relief to learn that they were were safe, but the headmaster knew it was only a matter of time before Potter and Weasley began scouring all four ends of the earth to find Hermione.
There was no way they could find out that Hogwarts' headmaster was ensconcing their best friend in his private chambers. Of course he could always come up with some plausible explanation if needed, but this secret was one that Snape planned on taking with him six feet under.
"Anything else, sir?"
"Yes, Dobby. If you hear anything, be it outside or around the school, I want you to come to me and no one else. Professor Dumbledore is the only exception, understood?"
"Dobby understands, sir. Does Headmaster Snape need anything from Dobby before he goes?"
Snape paused, considering. "I'm fine, Dobby, thank you."
"But what about lunch, sir? You never calls Dobby this morning and he didn't bring you breakfast and you said to only come when you called."
Snape raised an eyebrow, wondering just how long he had slept. Food was probably a good idea but he had no appetite. "No thank you, Dobby."
"Tea?"
"No, thanks, I'm fine."
"Coffee, sir?"
"Dobby, no thank you."
"But Headmaster Snape always has his coffee! Dobby brings it every day! Every morning!"
"Dob—"
"Headmaster Snape needs his coffee! Dobby must bring Headmaster Snape his coffee!"
"Fine! Yes, you may bring the coffee, Dobby, just don't get excited."
The house-elf looked seconds away from throwing a tantrum when Snape first declined his offer. A joyous look then filled his large eyes after he was given orders.
"Dobby will be right back, sir!"
The house-elf Disapparated right from the bed with a loud pop. Snape wasn't in the mood for coffee: he wanted to go back to sleep. But Dobby was so pressed on serving him something that Snape knew to let the elf bring the damned coffee if he planned on having peace for the next hour or so.
Five minutes later, Dobby returned to Snape's bed, a tray floating beside him, bearing a carafe of freshly brewed coffee, milk, sugar, and a large plate of biscuits. Dobby insisted on filling an entire small plate with half the biscuits, chattering as he transferred them one by one. It took the headmaster another five minutes to convince the house-elf that he could handle the rest and was not in need of anything else before Dobby consented to leave.
After clearing his lap of the overflowing plate of biscuits and crumbs and dumping them back on the tray, Snape went through the motions of preparing his coffee the same way he'd done for the past twenty-some years: two teaspoons of sugar and a dash of milk. Considering the circumstances, whiskey would have been ideal, but he was sure that Hogwarts' larder was regrettably absent of the mind-numbing libation. Trudging over to the armchair that he'd used the night before to keep watch over Hermione, Snape brought the cup to his lips while looking towards the bed.
There was no change in Hermione's condition; Dobby's racket hadn't even been enough to make her come to. Sighing as he slumped down in the chair, Snape took another liberal swig of coffee, almost forgetting that it was roughly the temperature of hell and cursing when he burnt his tongue, before surveying his bedroom. A mess of soiled towels and flannels littered the floor. Empty glass phials were still strewn about, and the pile of Hermione's torn, blood-stained clothing, along with his teaching robes, were peeking from beneath the bed.
Again he looked towards the young woman in his bed, feeling discomfited that she was practically comatose. Victims who suffered at the hands of Death Eaters, if they hadn't been outright killed, were usually awake even if just catatonic. The Longbottoms collectively shared an amount of sense that would fill a thimble, but at least Frank and Alice had the ability to roam about on their own, even if a Mediwitch had to trail them a few steps behind.
It was still too early to decipher the extent of Hermione's damaged mind, and while Legilimency might be able to assist in that matter, Snape refused to take the chance on grounds of exacerbating the situation. Magic, while at times helpful, could be quite destructive when overused.
Don't get ahead of yourself, Snape warned himself when a nasty thought crept into his mind: What if Hermione never recovered?
She will; she has to...
But what if she doesn't?
It was no point denying that troubling possibility. Snape had encountered enough individuals who'd had their brains turned into mush and knew better than to hope for a miracle. As far as he was concerned, only the foolish and unintelligent held out for such a thing and he had no time for chasing a chimera. Hogwarts still needed a headmaster, the Dark Lord still required a second in command, and above all, Hermione Granger needed the man who swore to protect her at all times, at any cost.
Snape refused to think about Hermione being forced to live out her life in the confines of Ward 49 in St. Mungo's. The place was filled with individuals who, if they spoke at all, conversed with the walls, their hand, or anything shiny that passed their face. The professor never had much reason to visit St. Mungo's, and definitely not that part of the hospital, but the handful of times he'd encountered those who had been affected by permanent spell damage, the effects on his senses had been minimal. It was one thing to look at a person who had some sort of affliction; of course he felt badly for them, but the absence of a personal relationship rarely made him cast a second thought. A former schoolmate of his, a witch named Andrenna Gilios who had been Ravenclaw sorted, was among the permanent residents in the Janus Thickey Ward. She and Snape had little rapport with one another in school, but he remembered her as a studious, remarkably bright young woman who always had her hand raised in class. The last time he'd seen Gilios was nearly a year ago, and that entire visit she had been perched in a windowsill, silently staring out into the view that had been charmed to show a large, sunny, flower filled meadow.
Hermione wasn't much different than Andrenna, and a large knot formed in Snape's chest as he thought about his brainy to the point of rambling, yet always welcome ray of sunshine being reduced to someone who spent their waking hours staring at floating dust motes.
Before he could get completely worked up over that scenario, Loki slinked over and rested his two front paws on Snape's knee.
"What do you want, demon feline, a dish of livers? Catnip?"
"Mrow."
"A mouse to beat into submission? My apologies, I'm fresh out of mice."
"Mrow."
"I don't speak cat."
"MROWW!"
There was a moment of staring between human and the four-legged creature who thought he was human.
"I take that to mean you want to be let out," Snape offered gruffly, walking out of the bedroom and into the front room, Loki trotting behind. "Go," he ordered, opening the door while staring down at the feline. To his annoyance, the cat sat on his haunches and licked out his tongue. Snape felt like an idiot for standing there with the door ajar, but the moment he closed it Loki walked over and butted his head against the wooden frame.
Fucking cat, Snape grumbled mentally, yanking the door opening with a loud bang. "Either get out or leave me alone. Pick one!"
"Mrow!" Loki greeted in farewell, swishing his tail around as he slithered out of Snape's chambers.
"And why haven't you followed your little friend?" Snape asked Crookshanks when he returned to his room and found the half-kneazle in his seat. Picking up the animal and settling into his armchair with Crookshanks in his lap, Snape began absentmindedly stroking his coat. "If you need to be let out, meow now or forever hold your peace, but I warn you, cat, if I find one drop of piss on my floor you'll be finding a new home."
Crookshanks slowly turned round to face Snape, seemingly appalled at the accusation of doing something so undignified. A few seconds passed before he stood up in Snape's lap, directing his gaze to his mistress's sleeping form.
"She's going to be fine," Snape dully murmured, scratching behind the cat's ears, although he was not sure who he was trying to convince: Crookshanks or himself.

There is more to this chapter, promise
xx
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Unintentional Inveiglement