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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
- 63
- 64
- 65
A/N: So in the newest edition of Things That Go Wrong and Tales of Onecelestialbeing and Her Drama, here we go: apparently my body has seen fit to give me trouble for the past two, almost three weeks. Last year I was told that I had trigeminal neuralgia. Fast forward to now, and for two weeks I had another flareup, even worse than the previous. I'm talking about a burning, fiery pain in my head, a sensation akin to someone shoving glass in my skin, and considering chopping off my cheek to make it stop. The meds though, my GOD they make me loopy but only take away some of the pain. Anyway I have to get an MRI done and some other test to check my blood vessels. Alas, this neuro says it's not TN... but she doesn't know what it is because my symptoms are atypical. Oh joy.

With that, I've been able to write when the computer didn't kill my eyes, or when the meds didn't put me to sleep. Hopefully everything is coherent!

And hey, do yall REALLY think this story would be abandoned? Hell to the no! We don't do that sort of thing around these parts. Sorry this one took so long, but I think you will be pleased... in a manner of speaking. *cough cough*

Thank you SOOOOO MUCH for the reviews, messages here, messages on facebook, tumblr, anywhere! I love hearing from all of you fabulous people.

If you want to listen along while reading, here are a few Philip Glass songs that put me in the mood while putting the finishing touches on this chapter: 'Mad Rush', 'Facades', 'Symphony for Eight', and 'Movement II'.

And now, it is 4:38 am. The meds have kicked in. I need bed. I also need a shower and let's hope my clumsy a** doesn't slip and fall.

May I thank all of you lovely folks again? May I say that I love you and appreciate you? I really do. And those aren't the meds talking.

"In order to rise from its own ashes, a Phoenix first must burn."
― Octavia E. Butler

A single strand of black hair clinging to a pillow, and the faint imprint of a head that lain on it was the only indication of Severus Snape's last hours in his bedroom. The blankets on the side he slept on were still thrown back, giving the impression of someone who had been woken in a rush. The other side of the bed was neat as a pin, the blankets smooth, undisturbed, and draped over a young woman who had yet to move since she'd been placed beneath them.

There was another person in the room who also hadn't moved since sitting down.

Long after the headmaster had gone, the effects of disrupted sleep continued to weigh on Filch. His eyes were glued shut until a dust-coloured cat hopped up on his lap, slinking her way beneath a thin, wrinkled hand that was dotted with age spots.

"There you are, old girl," Filch crooned to his familiar, stroking the back of her neck. "Got tired of dealing with those two buggers, did you?"

Mrs. Norris meowed softly, as though in affirmation, and nudged Filch's palm with her head. The two buggers in question were across the room, sitting closely to one another and flicking their tails in tandem. It wasn't likely that the peace would last, but Filch decided that he would take what he could get.

More important was the person he needed most to stay calm. Never in his life had he seen the likes of a conniption that even halfway matched Hermione Granger's when the headmaster went to leave the room. She'd clung to him the way a wife would cling to her husband before he was being shipped off to war, and it was a performance he found most curious.

Filch had long lost count of how many months had passed since he'd noticed Granger skulking about the dungeons. The first time he noticed her, he assumed she had been looking for her cat. The ginger half-kneazle was prone to scouting the area for mice, a habit that also belonged to Mrs. Norris and any other feline familiars in the school. But then he noticed her sneaking her way in the direction of the professor's office, not appearing as though she was searching for her cat, and he was mildly interested.

At first he assumed that she and the professor were up to some undisclosed mission, which was not unlikely. Hogwarts and its inhabitants harboured many secrets, Professor Dumbledore the most notorious confidante. That theory was thrown out the window during one of his normal rounds to visit Madam Pince in the library. The girl had been tucked away in a corner with her face buried in a book. If she was actively studying or mentally occupied with something else, it had been hard to tell, but the sadness on her face had been evident. On one of those occasions, Snape had also been present at the Librarian's request, as Madam Pince had a bone to pick with the Head of Slytherin about a few of his students defacing her precious books.

If Snape had noticed Granger sitting a mere few feet away from them, his face gave away nothing. However, it had been obvious that the girl immediately honed in on his presence. Filch had been unable to decipher if her expression was that of disappointment at being ignored, or something else. The idea wasn't that far off; there had been many younger male professors who unknowingly managed to captivate the female hearts of a large portion of sixth and seventh years.

As far as he knew, nothing untoward ever occurred. Those young, overzealous professors foolishly assumed a career in teaching would be a breeze, with plenty of time to enjoy weekends, Christmas and summer holidays. How quickly they had been brought to their knees by the workload, the constant near misses of being trampled by swarms of screaming students in the corridors, and the threat of the castle trying to kill its inhabitants. Those professors never lasted long, despite their pleasant demeanours which only served to further fan the flames of their adolescent crushes.

The age of those teachers was the only thing they and Severus Snape had in common. He was apathetic to the point of rude, unpleasant at almost every turn, and never one made apologies for his attitude. There was no way he could have ever accidentally garnered the fancy of one of his pupils, not even his own Slytherins whom he openly favoured.

That day in the library Filch attributed Granger's morose to some unrequited crush. Severus had gone on with business as usual, and Filch suspected nothing until thinking back to a few days prior when the professor visited him early one morning. Severus still looked as though he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, but he also carried an uncharacteristic aura of peacefulness. Filch hadn't known what to attribute that to, but after tonight's powerful exchange between him and the girl, the reasons were transparent.

There was something else he knew with certainty—he was not looking forward to Hermione Granger coming to and finding herself in the company of a surly caretaker, three cats, and an overly cheerful house-elf.

Fortunately all parties involved would be momentarily relieved of the elf's jubilance; Filch craned his neck to the right to see Dobby snoozing atop a cushion that was three times the size of his body. The entire floor was littered with similar cushions that Filch assumed the elf had Conjured, one of which held the furry body of Granger's cat.

Very good, Filch thought, settling back into the armchair and closing his eyes. Mrs. Norris was still in his lap, purring contentedly as she was petted. The excitement of the evening seemed to weigh heavily on all parties in the room, and Filch began snoring within seconds. He didn't realise that he'd fallen asleep until Mrs. Norris' body tensed beneath his hand, causing him to jerk awake.

"What is it, girl?" he rasped, dragging open one eye to find the cat staring intently across the room. "What do you see?"

Mrs. Norris continued staring, not moving a muscle, and Filch was about to stand up to investigate when he heard what sounded like a soft hiccoughing. He waited, debating on whether or not he should see if Granger was awake when he heard it again, followed by a sharp inhale. Shortly after was the undisputable sound of tears, and Filch remained glued to his seat.

Filch had witnessed students crying all the time, some of it being his fault. But this was an entirely different situation. It was awkward enough being there in the first place. He had no experience with soothing someone who was distraught, and definitely no idea how to proceed with comforting a young woman dealing with this sort of grief. It wasn't as though the boy she fancied had dumped her to move onto the next oblivious girl. The case of Severus and Granger was something he hadn't expected and consequently had no idea what etiquette called for in these circumstances.

Should I offer her a hankie? A cuppa? Not likely that a cup of tea would do much, not unless it was laced with a bit of brandy.

Hermione's tears were muffled, as though she was crying into a pillow. Filch struggled to remain impassive and began stroking Mrs. Norris' back again, although his entire body tensed with each one of those ragged sobs. It was difficult, however, to maintain the facade when Granger climbed out of bed and began heading for the door.

"It's no good, lass. Headmaster says we're to stay in here."

Either Granger didn't hear him, or she was electing to ignore him, because she continued tugging at the door handle.

The noise had woken Dobby, and the elf made his way across the room and stopped by Filch's chair.

"Dobby can open the door, Mr. Filch."

"You'll do no such thing!" Filch snapped, grabbing onto the end of the elf's ugly jumper as he began walking toward the door. "The headmaster says to stay in here and you'll do as you were bloody told!"

Dobby began wringing his hands, nervous at being yelled at, but he stayed in place. The rattling doorknob stopped. There was the sound of something rubbing against the door, followed by a soft thump. Filch swore silently at the ache in his back as he twisted around in his chair, finding an utterly defeated Hermione, slumped down on the floor with one hand still reaching up and clinging loosely to the door handle.

Though there was no fault of his own, it didn't stop Filch from feeling guilty. Part of him wanted to apologise, but it wasn't as though he could have stopped Severus from leaving. The professor was so damned honourable, it was unthinkable that he'd shirk his responsibilities. Yet Filch couldn't help but to muse that if a woman cried over him the way Granger cried over the professor, not even God could make him leave.

Filch would have verbalised all this, but he didn't want to sound like an arse. Furthermore, he didn't think it would really help the situation. All the placating in the world couldn't come close to mending a broken heart.

"Aren't you cold down there?" he asked, trying to distract her with something sensible. Yet Hermione refused to be swayed and turned away from him, reaching up with the other hand to continue prying at the door handle.

Filch went back to pretending to ignore Hermione. Ten minutes had passed and still she refused to move from the floor. It was warm by the hearth but decidedly chillier in the rest of the room, and Filch knew the bare floor beneath her legs was roughly the temperature of an icebox. He figured if Granger needed to warm up that she would have the sense to move, but it was obvious that the girl wasn't playing with a full deck.

"Come sit by the fire," Filch muttered without turning around. "Might as well bide your time with making a new plan whilst keeping warm." When there was no forthcoming sound associated with someone moving about, he stood up to face his stubborn charge. Mrs. Norris wasn't pleased at losing her seat and leapt down to the floor, hissing in displeasure. "Listen to me, lass, your man won't have a go at me because you decided to get yourself sick. Now I promised him that I would look after you and you will be found in the same condition as when he left."

He quickly lost patience when the girl glanced at him and then quickly looked the other way, lines of defiance painted around her mouth. Waving a hand in defeat, Filch took his seat again. Mrs. Norris did the same and flicked her companion on the arm with her tail, as if punishing him for moving in the first place. Filch didn't expect Granger to move, but he eventually noticed something out the corner of his eye, yet pretended that he wasn't affected by the stubborn girl heeding his advice. She settled in the armchair across from him, curling herself into a ball as though trying to disappear through the leather wingback.

"There you are," he said after some time, holding out a flask in Granger's direction. She had been staring into the fire and turned her head, frowning when she saw the opened flask. "It's not poison, girl. It's brandy and it'll calm your nerves."

Hermione remained unimpressed but took the flask anyway. She took a single sip, made a face, and then threw back another measure before handing back the flask. Filch chuckled when he saw her grimace.

"Severus don't like it much, either. If it's not sweet he don't care."

It was true; if Severus couldn't taste a hint of sugar then he wasn't interested. However, it was not the time for such an anecdote, as the caretaker soon found out. The girl had gone stiff at the mention of her missing lover's name, and Filch cursed himself for his thoughtlessness when he saw a fresh teardrop making its way down her cheek.

"Apologies, lass. Forgive an old man; I'm foolish and prone to blathering on."

Hermione gave a small nod but kept her head bowed as she retreated back into the haven of her armchair. Filch continued kicking himself for his slip of tongue when he saw Hermione lifting an arm to wipe her eyes on her sleeve.

A stretch of awkward silence followed. Filch wanted to make an attempt at some sort of conversation, but the risk of upsetting the girl forced him to remain silent.

Keeping his lips shut brought another thought to mind. Granger hadn't made a peep the entire time he was in the room, not even when she was bawling her eyes out over Severus' departure. It wasn't as if he was personally acquainted with the girl; most of their interactions were confined to verbal lashings that came about when he caught her and her two mates lurking about and getting into mischief. Even so, it was enough to know that Granger was anything but quiet. One afternoon, the trio passed him in the corridors as he had been mopping the floors. Granger had been reading and walking at the same time, whilst babbling on about something. Both boys look bored out of their skulls. When the redheaded one had had enough, he outright told her that she talked too much, which ended in her thwacking him atop the head with her book. That small display of violence hadn't stopped her one-sided conversation, and she continued trailing behind her friends, rambling on a mile a minute.

This oddly mute creature sitting across from him now left Filch confused. She looked like the same bushy-haired chatterbox he'd seen time after time, even if she was far less spirited than usual. But the fact that she had yet to utter a single was cause for worry. Was she mute by choice or some other reason? If something was amiss, it was unfortunate for Severus to keep that titbit to himself, but Filch reasoned that there had been other pressing issues at the moment. Keeping Granger calm, for one, had been a priority. Otherwise they risked her having a fit, and its magical consequences sending the bedroom ceiling to come crashing down on all their heads.

Filch sighed and sank back into his armchair. He still had a problem with being forced to stay hidden in Snape's bedroom, but he was almost ashamed to admit that it was a relief to not have to deal with the chance of getting killed. The idea might have been cowardly, considering the casualties that were likely to fall to children and adults. Then Filch remembered his promise to Snape, that he would protect his own hide as well as the woman the professor was obviously linked to.

Tired yet not in the mood for sleep, the only other options was drinking or reading. The hearth before him burned fiercely yet didn't throw enough light to warrant picking up a book, and Filch had never managed the knack of making a candelabra float in midair. More brandy was the better idea, and it was fortunate that he was in no danger of running out. The flask in his pocket had been a gift set from Severus, included with it a heavy crystal decanter. Both items were charmed to work in conjunction, and whatever was poured into the decanter would automatically refill the flask as needed.

Even though Severus hadn't said so, Filch knew the reason behind the birthday gift was that he hated having to constantly refill his old flask. Snape also knew the caretaker was a Squib, and while he never brought it up, knowing the older man despised that fact about himself. In spite of not being able to perform magic, it never stopped Filch from being fascinated by it. On more than one occasion he purposely left all but an inch of liquid in the magical flask, only to return to his rooms at the end of the day, completely empty the flask, and watch the amber liquid in the decanter slowly disappearing on its own, which caused the flask to grow heavy in his hand. It was such a simple thing that he figured he ought to feel foolish for being amused, but it didn't stop him from gleefully repeating the process when it took his fancy.

And thank God, because you'll need all the brandy you can get to survive this night.

If Granger woke up crying once, Filch hated to see what was going to happen when she woke up again. He was thankful when the two sips of brandy managed to soothe her nerves, but if necessary he would pour the entire flask down her throat if it meant keeping her calm until the professor returned. Surely there was some unwritten rule against getting students drunk, but this was an exceptional situation and there was no other alternative.

Filch shot the girl a furtive glance and saw her blinking sleepily. Her head bobbed up and down a few times, clearly struggling to stay awake and losing. Her body finally slumped sideways in the armchair. The position looked damned uncomfortable, but there was no way he would risk disturbing her.

I would tell her to get back into bed, but she'd likely kick up a fuss—again.

The caretaker had closed his eyes again and retreated deep into his thoughts when the sound of creaking leather made him jump. He hoped that Hermione hadn't woken up again to cry, but after studying her face, it was plain to see that she was not in distress.

It might have been ages since he knew the intimate company of a woman, but there was no way he could forget an expression like the one Granger currently displayed. If she was having some sort of sex-related dream, it was preferable to a nightmare that would likely end in tears. However, it didn't mean that it wasn't awkward to witness, and Filch averted his eyes, digging out his flask to take a few healthy swallows. He was thankful that her unconscious state of joy was not accompanied by sound. That would have sent him dashing to the front room.

Of all the things to be thrown off kilter by, you let that bother you, Filch told himself.

Perhaps Hermione's dream had taken another turn, because her face relaxed and she fell back into an even sleep. Filch was grateful and prayed that the girl would remained unperturbed until the headmaster returned. If he needed to give a full report on what happened during his absence, Filch wouldn't know where to begin or how he should explain the delicate situation of Granger 's mind taking a salacious turn as she slept. Of course, it was something entirely out of his control, and Severus could display reason, but still...

All thoughts of Hermione and her dream dashed away when loud, multiple thumps made him jump again in his seat.

"What the—" Filch began, cutting himself off when he looked at Hermione and found her wide awake, back pressed against the wall and completely panicked. A pile of fallen books were at her feet, which had been knocked down in her scramble. "What's the matter, child? What did you—"

That time he was cut off by the three cats, yowling as though they'd been plunged into boiling water, and Dobby shrieking whilst clapping his tiny hands over both flapping ears. There was another clatter as Hermione knocked into a small table, sending another stack of books tumbling to the floor. She trembled viciously, her back still firmly against the sturdy stone wall, as if enough pressure would send her right through it and away from the invisible cause of her terror.

"There's nothing here, girl!" Filch shouted over the shrieks of the cats and house-elf. "It's just us, and Severus'll soon return. Come sit back down."

Filch barely had the chance to see Hermione reacting to the mention of Severus, because a cold, bone-chilling voice rang loudly out of nowhere, filling every inch of space in Snape's small bedroom and inside his head.

"You have fought, valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery. Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste."

"Lord Voldemort, he says. Lord." Filch made a little hissing sound while digging his fingertips into his scalp, trying to rub the sinister voice out of his mind. "Since we're trying to far higher than our arses, that'll be Duke Filch to you."

"Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat, immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured."

It was difficult to decipher where the sound came from exactly and impossible to ignore; one minute it felt as though the entire room was vibrating with that cold, eerie voice, the next, it seemed to emanate right from the centre of his brain. It was violating and highly intrusive, and so damned uncomfortable that Filch blurted out the first thing that came to mind, uncaring if the pompous arse who referred to himself as a Lord heard him.

"My lord, if you would be ever so kind to get the fuck out of our heads, I would much obliged!"

"I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you," Voldemort continued. "You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour."

Filch held his breath to see if Voldemort had finally finished, and exhaled in relief when it was quiet again. Quiet from the Dark Lord's voice, rather. Dobby was crouched between the hearth and the armchair, hands still clapped over his ears, yelling "Make it stop! Make it stop!" The cats had sought safety beneath Snape's massive bed. Loki and Crookshanks were still hissing every so often, but Mrs. Norris popped her head out, saw her master, and immediately fled in his direction.

"There, there, girl, it's all right," Filch crooned, scooping his familiar up with one arm and shooting the house-elf a nasty glare. "Pull yourself together, elf! It's over, now shut up!" Dobby paid Filch no mind and continued with his caterwauling. Filch wasn't the only annoyed party; Mrs. Norris was still agitated from Voldemort's sibilant speech and the house-elf's shrieks did nothing to soothe her nerves. She began clawing at Filch's trousers, and when a nail cut through the fabric and threatened to break skin, Filch hurried over to Dobby.

"Damn it, elf, I said it's done! Now you shut your gob right now or you'll get some of this brandy too!" Filch shook the flask in Dobby's direction, and the elf sniffled and peered up at him.

"D-Dobby doesn't like brandy," he whimpered. "And he doesn't like He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named either!"

"I don't like him either," Filch grumbled, shoving the flask back into his pocket, "but screaming your head off won't get rid of him. Now gather your wits and help me get Granger back into her seat, before she goes barmy again and accidentally kills us all."

It didn't exactly cause physical pain to have the Dark Lord's voice inside your head, but Filch reasoned that a person who was already mad with grief might experience otherwise. Filch wished he had given Hermione enough brandy to render her completely pissed and unconscious. Perhaps then she would have slept through the gift of a mental mind fuck on the Dark Lord's behalf, and she wouldn't be tucked into a ball between the wall and table, hyperventilating and thrashing about like a trapped animal.

"Come along, lass. We'll have a nice sit down and wait for Severus to come back," Filch urged in the cheeriest tone he could muster. "You can have more brandy; as much as you don't like, so long as you promise not to tell headmaster." He held out a hand to help the girl up, but she flailed and darted away from him, scuttling across the room on her hands and knees.

"Merlin's bloody beard," Filch muttered under his breath. "You can't stay down there all night," he pointed out, sidestepping a gaped-mouth Dobby and continuing his attempt at cajoling Hermione into taking his hand.

A couple hours ago, Hermione had been obstinate, but she had also been reasonable. Now it was as though fear had sunk its claws into her back, refusing to let go, and nothing or no one was going to make her budge.

"Dobby knows what will help, sir!" the elf trilled from somewhere in the vicinity of Filch's knee. He totted away and when he returned, his entire body was swathed by a large pile of black fabric, leaving only his eyes and ears visible. "She likes Headmaster's robes, sir," Dobby explained in a muffled voice as he stopped in front of Hermione, opening the robes as far as his little arms would allow, and draping them over her lap.

The young woman's panicked breathing slowed down, and she was no longer trying to move away from the elf and caretaker. There was a flicker of recognition on her face, and Filch watched as she slowly picked up the robes, buried her face in them, and inhaled deeply.

She's sniffing his robes. She's sniffing his sodding robes. Not that I'm one to judge but I didn't expect that. Well, so long as it keeps her calm, I have no complaints.

The moment Filch fell comfortably and unknowingly into a false sense of security, Hermione threw herself face down on the floor. Her fists drew themselves tightly onto the teaching robes as if they were her lifeline, and her new round of tears were as vicious as they were silent.

Dobby moved next to Hermione's head and tried to console her. Remembering the girl's penchant for mental mayhem and the flying book that nearly broke his nose, Filch opened his mouth to tell Dobby that he ought to move away. That wasn't necessary, as the elf soon found out on his own.

The minute Dobby began patting Hermione's head, a small book came out of nowhere and clonked him on the head.

"Ouch! Why did you hits Dobby on the head, Mr. Filch?"

"It weren't me, you clod," Filch spat, reaching down to snatch the house-elf out of harm's way. Dobby pulled a face and darted away from Filch's hand, wanting to stay next to Hermione. "Suit yourself. I'll be over here, safe and not getting my brains bashed in."

Filch had moved all of three paces when a book came whizzing past his cheek, followed by another soaring over his head.

"All right, lass, enough with the books!" Filch grumbled, walking back over to Hermione. He jostled her by the arm, forgetting that he wasn't supposed to be adding to her agitated state. "There's no need for that," he added in voice that he hoped was gentler. "None of us want to be stuck in here, but we need to wait a little while longer. I reckon I know how Severus feels about you, and he would hate to see you all distraught like this."

Filch waited on tenterhooks—while keeping a safe distance— to see how the girl would react to his words. She seemed to calm down in stages; her clenched fingers loosened their grip on the robes, and the tension in her body melted away.

"Good girl," he praised, chancing a step forward again to help her up. "Now let's go and—"

He was unable to get another word out. An empty candle holder on the table closest to him began twirling of its own volition, before flying off and crashing into his chest. Another candle holder, one with a lit taper, began doing the same macabre dance. Worried about the thing flying somewhere and sending the bed curtains up in a blaze, Filch made to grab onto it. Luckily the taper blew out on its own before the flame could touch anything, and the holder toppled over.

"Where the devil are you, Severus!" Filch grouched just as an empty goblet made its way toward his face.

One by one, every item that wasn't nailed down in the room began flying about. Loki and Crookshanks had been wise enough to remain beneath the bed, and Mrs. Norris scampered to rejoin them. Dobby and Filch, on the other hand, were left out in the open, and their voices mingled in a chorus of panicked shouts while rushing to take cover behind the armchairs.

"Dobby!" Filch yelled, trying to get the trembling elf's attention. Dobby had managed to catch one of his flying cushions. It was twice the size of his body, but he held it around his head. Dobby could barely hear through the thick material because Filch called his name three times before he looked up.

"DOBBY! Go and find the headmaster!"

"But Headmaster Snape says Dobby isn't supposed to leave, sir!"

"I know what he said, but I'm telling you to go find him now. Now, Dobby, before there's nothing left of us to find!"

Dobby was torn between wanting to follow orders from the headmaster, while being demanded by the caretaker to do the opposite of those previous orders. But when the sound of something cracking reached their ears, followed by a pile of bedding dropped between them, falling dangerously close to the hearth, Dobby's eyes grew wide and he Disapparated without further debate.

Despite the carpet beneath him, the floor was hard against his knees and his back hurt from being crouched into the uncomfortable position. Yet it still wasn't enough to make Filch move from the shield that was his armchair.

"God, I hope this bleedin' elf don't take forever," Filch groused as something fell and struck the heel of his boot. He didn't bother turning around to see what it was, not wanting to risk some other flying object striking him in the head.

A second later there as another loud crack, and it was accompanied by a shrill "Mr. Filch!"

"Oh no. No no no!"

The site before him made Filch forget about Hermione's rage and its magical, calamitous side effects. The bedding was close to going up in a blaze but no one cared. Practically in Dobby's lap was a man so covered in blood that Filch almost didn't recognise him. It didn't matter that the man was dressed head to foot in black, with just a glimmer of red-soaked white at his neck and wrists. The red had managed to permeate the black, leaving a large, moist stain that emanated a scent of copper.

Filch immediately launched into action, shoving the elf to the side when he noticed the blood still leaking from somewhere beneath the man's collar. It didn't take a genius to figure out what happened; Severus had spoken of the Dark Lord's pet snake often enough, and the many who fell victim and became her meal.

"Open your eyes, lad," he urged, clamping one trembling hand over the man's neck. "For the love of God, Severus, open your damned eyes!"

It was hard to tell if he was dead or alive. Filch had little knowledge concerning medicine and healing, but a great loss of blood was evident. But he knew enough to keep pressure on the affected area, and in the interim he never noticed the girl crawling her way over.

An icy gust tore through the room when Hermione caught sight of Severus in Filch's arms, red standing out sharply against his deathly-pale features, and the older man desperately trying to staunch his bleeding neck. Anything that had been in the midst of flying through the room came to a halt and landed.

"Wake up, Severus," Filch continued urging in a half-crazed tone, giving Severus a small shake out of frustration. "Wake up, damn it! You wake up right now!"

But Severus didn't wake up, and the expression on the young woman's face rivalled that of someone who just had their heart and soul ripped from their body.

The sight of Severus had shocked Hermione into a tearless state, but as she moved closer, never noticing the broken glass in front of her and deeply cutting open both hands on it, her body began quivering all over.

"This is no time to break down, child," Filch admonished, breaking out of his own reverie. He'd been struck in the temple with something and was also bleeding, but was too fussed to pay attention to the thin stream of red trickling down the side of his head. He grabbed Hermione's wrist, yanked her closer, and thrust her hand on Severus' neck to replace his. "Keep it there, do you understand me? Press down as hard as you can without cutting off his air."

Hermione seemed utterly traumatised, but she nodded and held her hand in place as directed.

"Dobby!"

"Yes, Mr. Filch?"

"St. Mungo's," Filch wheezed, suddenly unable to catch his breath. "Get them to St. Mungo's straightaway. Tell them You-Know-Who's snake attacked the professor. Go!"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Filch!"

It didn't matter that Hermione was clinging to Snape on an angle, his blood smeared all over her hands as she frightfully looked down into his still face. All it took was one touch from Dobby to Disapparate them from the floor of Snape's bedroom and into the reception area of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Upon their arrival, Dobby immediately began yelling for help, but it had been hard to ignore the loud crack of Apparition, followed by a shrieking house-elf, an eerily calm young woman with blood-stained hands, holding onto an equally bloodied man who appeared to be standing on death's door.

The hospital was usually bustling with activity. Tonight it was oddly quiet, as most witches and wizards had fled the country in anticipation of the impending war. The Welcome Witch was stationed behind her desk, falling asleep over her magazine when she heard the commotion. She sprang into action, hopping down from her seat and pointing her wand at her throat, using Sonorous to call for help.

In an instant there was a flurry of lime green as a bevy of Healers rushed over, dropping down to their side while demanding to know what happened. Dobby's voice was shrill as he explained about the snake, and two of the Healers let out audible gasps.

"My God, that's the same one that tried to kill Arthur Weasley," one of them said, moving in closer to assess their patient.

"Is he alive, Florence?"

Florence was scared to answer, so she remained silent. She needed to feel for a pulse, but it was difficult with the man's thick layer of clothing. Without a second thought, she knocked Hermione's hand out the way and used her wand to carefully slice through the material, exposing his blood-soaked skin down to the chest. By then another Healer had Conjured a pile of thick cloths to press onto his bitten neck, while another Conjured a stretcher and left it floating alongside.

"No... Damn... Wait a minute, it's there. It's weak, but there's definitely a pulse, although frankly I don't know how. But we need to move now."

"What about the girl?"

"Have her checked out, but seeing as she's conscious, she's not really a priority right now. Now on my count of three, we'll move him to the stretcher. One, two, three!"

The entire time Hermione remained at Severus' head, allowing the Healers to do their work. But when she tried to follow behind, another Healer, a tall, thin grey-haired woman who was stronger than she looked, held Hermione back and it was enough to set her off again.

"Stop that, child! Do you want him to die?" the woman chided. "'Tis a miracle he's hanging on by a thread now."

It was a comment meant to knock some sense into Hermione, but the idea of Severus not surviving made her sob harder.

"No, Missy Hermy, no!" Dobby was still standing by, and grabbed onto Hermione's hand, trying to console her. "The professor will come back, he will! But please don't cry. You'll make everything fly again!"

Tilly, the older woman who grabbed onto Hermione but had let her go, was the no-nonsense sort who had little patience for hysterics. In her line of work, there was always something sad occurring, and sometimes she wondered if she should feel ashamed for having grown numb to a lot of it. But as she stood there watching the young woman, who covered her eyes with one arm and cried piteously and silently into the blood-smeared sleeve of her jumper, while a house-elf wearing the oddest assortment of clothes tugged on her other hand, something told her to be kind, that this was no ordinary case.

"Please don't cry, please please," the elf continued begging, squeezing his little fingers around her wrist. "Headmaster is stronger than he looks, you'll see."

"Do you think it wise to make promises that none of us can deliver on?" Tilly quietly asked the elf. "I'd hate for you to give her false hope and everything turns out..."

Badly was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence. The girl heard every word she said, and Tilly soon found out what the elf meant about her 'making everything fly again'.

Surrounding the reception area were stacks of leaflets that explained how to make simple household potions, and multiple copies of Witch Weekly magazines that dated back to her own youth. On the Welcome Witch's desk were small rolls of parchment, quills, and inkwells. Little by little, each item, followed by whatever else was loose in the room, levitated of their own volition and began whirling about.

The Welcome Witch had rushed back over upon seeing the contents of her desk shooting up into the air, and she opened her mouth to protest when her spectacles were snatched off her face to join the flurry of quills and magazines.

"Is—is she doing that!" the woman screeched, grabbing hold of her desk and clumsily making her way over. "I need my glasses! I'm blind as a bat without them!"

"It's all right, Agnes, we'll get them back," Tilly calmly told her, carefully moving around to face Hermione. "Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?" she said encouragingly, pointing to the dried red on the backs of her hands. "You'll feel better after a bath."

A bath was the last thing Hermione cared about. Somewhere in the recesses of her muddled mind, Severus' blood on her hands was the last tangible piece she had of him, and though it was macabre, she didn't want to wash it off. On top of that she was terrified by her uncontrollable outpouring of magic. She didn't mean to cause chaos, but the tumultuousness of her emotions were manifesting into whatever was nearby at the moment, and she didn't know how to turn it off.

By now the rickety wooden chairs in the waiting area had uprooted themselves to join the melee above their heads. Tilly and Agnes were unable to hide their panic, and whipped out their wands to divert the chairs far away from where they were standing.

"Tilly, you've got to do something! She's tearing this place apart!"

"I will, Agnes, but the least you can do is make yourself useful and call for help!"

The mishmash of quills, books and chairs were steadily gaining speed, knocking into the walls with loud bangs and narrowly missing Tilly and Hermione. Talking to the distraught girl only seemed to make matters worse, and Tilly wracked her brain, thinking of a way to subdue the girl without causing her further injury.

"What the bloody hell—Tilly!" shouted a burly, grey-bearded Healer, who was about to run into the room but skidded to a halt when a copy of Witch Weekly zoomed past his nose. His eyes then fell upon one of his Healers, who looked quite harried. Her wand was pointed up at the whirlwind of supplies, diverting them away from herself, away from Agnes, who was hiding behind her desk but also had her wand out, and away from a hysterical young woman whose face, hair, chest, and arms were smeared with red. "You have a patient here, covered in blood, and no one thought to get her upstairs?" the man exploded. "Explain this!"

"Oh shut up, Cyril! We know you're supposedly in charge, but no one has time for your posturing!" Tilly shot back. "Count of three, I'll put her out and you cast a cushioning charm. Ready?"

Hermione knew she was being talked about, but the words refused to register in her head. The only thing she could focus on was grief so sharp that it seemed to cut her in a million pieces, as well as a hellish fire lighting up the right side of her body and both palms. She didn't realise that she was stumbling around blindly, arms outstretched and her mouth wide in a parody of a scream, even though no sound came out.

"Honestly, can you not handle one little girl?" Cyril replied with disgust, hastily striding over to Hermione and attempting to bodily lift her.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you..." warned Tilly. Unfortunately, her colleague was the stubborn type who thought he knew everything, and outright ignored her. Tilly shook her head the moment Cyril's beefy hands clamped onto the girl's arms, which set her to kicking and thrashing.

"Stop... stop it... STOP!" Cyril huffed, unable to get a hold on his uncooperative charge. "Some assistance, please!" he shouted, letting out a swear when Hermione's foot collided with his knee.

The entire time, Tilly had been sneaking her way up behind Cyril and the strange girl, taking care to avoid the flying objects while keeping her wand at the ready. A non-verbal spell aimed at the girl's head quickly subdued her, and she went collapsed in Cyril's arms.

"Damnation!" Cyril shouted as everything began falling down around them. Magazines rained down on his head and shoulders, and he had to throw up an arm to keep his patient from getting hit in the face. "Why can't we have the normal cases? Whatever happened to broken or missing limbs? Or people with things shoved in places that ought not to have things shoved into them?"

"Nothing is ever normal here, Cyril," said Tilly tersely as she Conjured a stretcher and help him lay the girl down.

"Where the devil is the rest of the staff?"

"Tending to the gentleman she came in with," Tilly replied in a hushed tone, flicking her wand again and producing a small amber bottle. "Unconscious, unresponsive and throat cut to ribbons. Merlin knows how they made it here in time. Here you go, dearie, open up."

Tilly had pulled the dropper out of the bottle and held it to Hermione's lips. Even with her incohesive state, Hermione's lips tightened in protest, and remained like so until Tilly patted her cheek.

"It's all right, child, it's over. This will help you sleep, now open up."

"For God sake, you're doing too much. Just pinch her nose; eventually she'll open her mouth to breathe."

"Good lord, and I thought my bedside manner was shit. You may leave now, Cyril. I've got her."

"And what if she refuses to take the potion and she starts up again? You know that stunning spell only lasts for fifteen minutes or so."

"Don't you worry, you old codger. She'll take it, won't you?" Tilly continued, now looking Hermione in the eye.

The man with the beard was mean, and the grey-haired lady was stern, but kind. She seemed trustworthy enough, and Hermione blinked slowly as she parted her lips.

"See? What did I say," Tilly murmured, delivering a dropperful of the clear liquid, three times more than the normal dosage. "Good girl. Now close your eyes."

Someone else had said something similar to her before... ages ago, it seemed. She fought to remember when, and who said it, but the immediate effects of the potion made it hard to drum up the energy to think. Sound was fading, and her head felt almost disconnected from her body. There was a slight thrumming in her ears, and it somewhat resembled a heartbeat. For some reason she felt like crying. She didn't know why but it didn't matter because the potion wouldn't let her. The burning in her side still was beginning to spread all over, yet the only thing she could do was allow her body to sink into the rough surface of the stretcher.

"That's it, close your eyes," she heard the voice murmur again.

Suddenly it felt like she was floating, and a single tear slid down her cheek just before everything turned black.

xx
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Unintentional Inveiglement