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
- 65
- 66
- 67
"How much of human life is lost in waiting."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
A/N: Sooo...does have a Timeturner or something I can use to give me more hours in the day? Slowly but surely I have finished this chapter and hopefully it is coherent, hopefully it is absent of grammatical errors, and hopefully I didn't screw anything up. It is 435 in the morning and Easter candy and wine are my friends right now. Yes, I have Easter candy and I have no regrets.
I've missed you all! Sorry for the long time between updates. I really do try but it's sooooo hard trying to write when you're falling asleep at night. Therefore it takes me 40 years and a day to write 8k. I 'm a horrible person, I am so sorry.
Thank you SO MUCH for the reviews on this fic! I promise to never ever abandon it. This is one of my fave stories that I've written and I already have some of the ending as well as other chapters planned so even if they're slow to post, they will come.
Remember you're free to friend me on facebook (message me if you like so we can exchange names!) and maybe you can fuss at me and give me a little (or big) push to get more written quickly ;)
Something furry persistently tickled the underside of Filch's jaw. He made a few snuffling sounds and tried to bat the tickling thing away, but it stopped for all of a second before continuing. Finally the tickling became somewhat of an irritation, and he opened his eyes to find two smaller red eyes at the end of his nose, staring up at him.
"All right there?" he asked his cat, peering down into her disgruntled face. "I supposed you're wanting breakfast."
Filch moved to get up, but found that the motion made his head spin. Slumping back into his chair, he groaned while trying to remember what he'd done to make his head feel like a whirling dervish.
The image of a crystal flask came to mind, along with the remembrance of an oaky finish of the spirit he'd liberally imbibed the night before. He usually carried brandy in his pocket flask, so why the hell did he drink whiskey? And just how much did he drink?
Too much, Filch silently answered, smacking his chapped lips and grimacing at the nasty taste coating his tongue.
He began looking around and took in the sight his cat, along with a black cat and a furry ginger cat fast asleep before the hearth. Just like that, memories of the previous night became clearer.
Severus had died, or nearly died. Filch still didn't know which one it was and a large part of him was too frightened to find out. But before all that, he'd been put in charge of caring for Severus's oddly silent wand-mate, along with that damned busybody house-elf and two additional cats.
It still didn't account for the 'about to fall off the edge of the world' sensation in his head, and Filch wracked his brain until remembering that he'd emptied his brandy flask as well as the bottle that kept it refilled. Desperate to get drunk to help him forget everything that night, he'd scoured every inch of Severus's rooms until he found an unopened bottle of expensive Firewhisky. He knew the headmaster wasn't fond of anything with a smoky bite, and figured the bottle had been a gift. Filch told himself that it was rude to help himself to someone's liquor cabinet without prior permission, but told himself that these were grave times and if it was to be his last night on earth, he'd go out completely pissed and oblivious to all.
That plan worked brilliantly; through that night, at least. Filch didn't remember falling asleep, but somehow he'd had the forethought to leave the empty goblet at a safe distance. The downside to his plan was the Firewhisky rendering him unconscious whilst he remained sat upright in an armchair. Every inch of his neck and back ached and was in dire need of liniment. As his luck would have it, the one person who had the ability to brew something strong enough to take away that ache was out of commission.
After a few more minutes of dawdling, Filch forced himself from the armchair and took in the mess of Severus's rooms once more. Telling himself that it would take a lot more than a broom and dustpan to set everything to rights, Filch made a mental note to have Dobby put everything together again.
"All right there, you lot. Let's get breakfast."
That comment was directed to Mrs Norris, who was impatiently waiting by his feet. Yet at the mention of food, the other two cats moved from the hearth and immediately began twining themselves around Filch's ankles.
With his breakfast finished and the three cats fed and safely tucked away in his office, Filch fetched his largest broom and began making his way to the Great Hall to see if he could be of any assistance. Upon leaving Severus's room, his interest in the damaged corridors had been mild. But now his gaze was completely affixed to the formerly glorious corridor that was now demolished and stretched across the floor in heaps of rubble.
It was a jarring experience. Many a day he had walked through these halls, wondering what it would have been like to take the same walk as a student, clutching onto a book instead of a broom. For him, the sprawling castle that was Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had always been a thing of beauty. He was sure most of its inhabitants could not appreciate this splendiferous place, although there were times when even he had trouble with finding its charm. It was difficult to appreciate the high ceilings and ancient yet beautiful stained glass windows when your nose was constantly in a bucket, mopping up vomit and muddy footprints and all manner of things careless children left on his pristine floors.
"Mr Filch, what are you doing?
Filch halted and shuffled around. Professor Slug horn stood three feet away from him, looking utterly ridiculous in a velvet green belted dressing gown that hugged his round middle. It was torn in a few places and seemed an odd choice of garment for battle, especially considering the matching slippers, and Filch wondered how the man managed to remain in one piece.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Filch grunted, clenching his fist tighter around the broom handle.
"My word, Argus—are you aware that you're bleeding?"
Filch pressed two fingers to his hairline, right where Slughorn's eyes were glued to, and dismissed the blood that came back. "Hmm. No matter," he conceded, dragging his hand across his brown overcoat. "S'not like I never bled before."
"Good lord, man, at least me heal it for you," Slug horn insisted, flicking his wand at Filch's broom, causing it to levitate out his hand, float across the corridor and come to a rest against the crumbling wall. "I suppose this is a rather poor choice of words considering the circumstances, but there's no point in killing yourself trying to clean all this up without magic."
"And here I was, hoping they'd write a book about me. It would be titled 'Argus Filch and The Worst Fucking Mess He Ever Did See'. Maybe I'll be famous too."
Filch hadn't intended on being snippy, but he was still bristling from Slughorn's likely innocuous yet pointed remark about cleaning without magic. Slug horn had been around long enough to know that he was a Squib, and Filch resented the man bringing it up.
There was little time to dwell on the slight because Slughorn clamped a beefy hand onto his shoulder and led him inside the Great Hall. The large space was tightly packed and seeing everyone made Filch wonder if his lengthy absence had been noticed. Yet everyone was so preoccupied that no one noticed the two men making their way across the room.
"There we are," Slug horn trilled, patting a chair. The chair had a few pieces missing but its legs were sturdy. "Now let's see what we have here."
Filch felt his lip curling slightly but sat down anyway, making sure to avoid the chair's jagged edges. He was uncomfortable with having the Slughorn's wand in his face, but the stinging in his forehead —that he hadn't noticed until now—soon dissipated.
Pleased with his handiwork on Filch's head, Slug horn began twittering on about the cuts and slashes across his hands, but Filch was too busy taking in the sights and sounds in the Great Hall to pay attention. Children and adults alike were deeply engrossed in conversation with many of the portraits. The House tables were in place but there seemed to be no division of any sort. Sorrow, relief, anguish, and happiness were just a handful of the expressions on many faces. Some looked as though they never wanted to see the walls of Hogwarts again, and others looked as though the only thing they needed was a sandwich, a fag, a cup of tea, and a nap.
A small cluster of bedraggled students to his right were going on about Harry Potter killing You-Know-Who and saving them all.
"Did you see him? Could you believe it? Because I couldn't believe it," one boy enthused to his friends as he played with the shredded sleeve of his robe. "I absolutely could not believe it. I would have wet my pants if I had to face You-Know-Who."
"We don't have to say You-Know-Who anymore, you know," one of the girls replied. Her cheeks were covered in dirt and her hair had gone all frizzy, and she was in the middle of giving herself sloppy pigtails while chatting away. "You-Know-Who, I mean, Voldemort is dead. It's not like anything's going to happen."
"I know, but it's still hard to say his name. God, he was terrifying. I was sure he was going to kill us all."
"Well, yeah, that was his plan," another one of the boys replied drolly.
To his left, a boy and girl—seventh-years, he was sure— both of whom looked absolutely serene despite their dishevelled state, were holding hands and leaning against one another.
"Do you know what I'd like right now?" the girl mentioned casually, using her free hand to sweep her dusty fringe out of her eyes.
"What?" her boyfriend asked.
"Cake. Specifically my Nan's Angel cake. She's a Muggle and doesn't know much about all this, but when were in the middle of fighting, the only thing I could think was 'I don't want to die' and 'I can't die yet, not without knowing what Nan puts in her cake'. She refuses to tell us how she makes it, but it's light and fluffy and melts in your mouth and it's absolutely gorgeous, and I was pretty sure if I were to die, wherever I ended up wouldn't have her cake. So I couldn't die. And since I made it out of the battle I'm making my way to Cornwall to see her the first chance I get."
"You're absolutely mad, do you know that?"
"I know, but you still fancy me. And too bad it nearly took getting our heads blasted off for you to tell me."
"Better late than never, right?"
"Right."
Oh, bloody hell, they're kissing. They're kissing right behind my head. Where the hell are their parents? And they better not think about skulking off to have a celebratory shag in one of my clean classrooms.
Filch paused his mental grousing for a moment, remembering that the school had been turned upside down and there was a snowball's chance in hell of there being a single clean classroom in the entire school.
"Nearly done, I think," Slug horn mused with his head still bowed low, treating Filch to a face full of moustache and shiny, partially bald scalp as he gave the caretaker's hands a final examination. Filch jumped at the man's wand touched another sensitive spot on his arm, but the pain was soon gone. "There, now we're done." Slug horn stood up and tucked his wand into an inner pocket. "Did you hit your head? Maybe you ought to let Madam Pomfrey or one of the mediwitches take a look."
"I'm fine, Horace," Filch replied, rushing to his feet. He had a strong dislike of being fussed over, and an ever stronger dislike for noise. Right now the Great Hall was too full of sound, too full of people, too full of everything, and standing alone in the destroyed corridor with his broom pointlessly shuffling around piles of dust and stone was highly preferable.
"Ah, there goes Potter. Bless him for all he's done. I tried to thank him but someone interrupted each time I got near. No matter, perhaps we'll get the chance to speak later."
Now it was really time for him to leave. Filch could hardly believe that Slug horn was this preoccupied with remaining in good graces with Potter. Then there was the fact that he totally dismissed Weasley's presence. The two boys, now young men, had been mischievous throughout the years, but they still deserved their due.
Having grown tired of Sluggy's subtle snobbery, Filch thanked the man for his services and began making his way out the Great Hall. Potter and Weasley were also heading for the exit, walking side by side. Like everyone else, they were battered and bruised, looking as though they'd crawled upwards on hands and knees to escape the pits of hell. Yet there was a glimmer of triumph on their faces, and both young men acknowledged the caretaker with a nod, politely standing aside to allow him to walk out first.
Funny that, I guess they're not as bad as I thought. Bugger. Suppose I'll have to thank the little pest and his mate for saving our necks.
Even with magic, there was no telling how long it would take to fully restore the castle. Nearly a week had passed and still things were in shambles. Just about all of the students had returned home. Mostly the staff remained, mingling in with them a steady flow of Ministry officials, Aurors, and reporters from the Daily Prophet. McGonagall had taken charge of things and thanks to her, a bit of order was being slowly restored. Although there were a few times when her patience had run out, and she outright told the overly-officious Ministry members that they were either going to pick up a wand and help get rid of the dust threatening to choke everyone or they could get out of her school.
A few times McGonagall was met with resistance, and Filch cheerfully stepped in and asked if he should escort their 'guests' from the premises. McGonagall took each of Filch's offers, and bid everyone good day before hurrying away in a flurry of tartan.
Only one of these officials had been made of stronger mettle. A tall wizard with a bushy moustache and spectacles too small for his large face, he was the most stoic of the group that visited Hogwarts later that week. It was clear that he'd been dubbed the spokesman, and the others dared not question his authority.
"If you gentlemen would care to look up, you'd notice that parts of the ceiling are missing and the entire thing is on the verge of collapse. Now as much as I would like to stand here and have a natter, I must decline due to more pressing matters."
"But—" the man stammered, pressing his lips together when he saw the icy glint appear in McGonagall's green eyes.
"What did I tell you, Mister Breckhart? This ceiling has holes in it the size of a mountain. Now either whip out your wand and get to work or shift your arse!"
Mr. Breckhart was instantly nonplussed the moment he found himself on the receiving end of McGonagall's short temper. It was slightly shocking when he turned out to be a man of mettle; Mr. Breckhart pulled out his wand, aiming it at the largest of the cracks in the ceiling and causing the split to seal itself in three seconds. He then ordered the rest of his people to do the same, and carried on with fixing the ceiling with missing a word of his conversation with the headmistress.
Throughout all this, Filch made it his business to stay nearby whilst lurking in the shadows. Up until now there had been no mention of Severus, and it was difficult to know if this was due to everyone believing that he was dead, or hatred due to his name being some verboten topic because of Dumbledore's death.
Potter had immediately made it known that Snape wasn't as evil as everyone originally believed. With his own ears Filch heard the young man speaking about seeing Severus's memories in the Pensieve in the headmaster's office. This bit of knowledge had been shocking to Hogwart's staff, and it was a rare moment for McGonagall to be at a loss for words.
Word was out: Severus Snape was technically not a murderer even though he had in fact killed Dumbledore.
Unsurprisingly, people were less concerned with the technicalities and maintained that he had been the biggest bastard a person could come across. Thus, little sympathies were directed his way. A handful of people were slightly more respectful when they spoke of the believed to be gone professor, but the underlying tone that gave away unspoken thoughts was still there. Those people did not want to speak ill of the dead, but they had no trouble admitting their true feelings to themselves.
To Filch, the public version of events seemed didn't quite add up. He was certain there was more that Potter was not saying, but figured the bare minimum of information was given only to certain parties. Likely McGonagall knew, as well as Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was the newly appointed Minister for Magic. Whatever knowledge they had, it was being kept under tight wraps and there was zero chance of it being divulged.
It was just as well, because reporters from the Prophet, as well as other smaller papers,were doing their best to secure an interview with the hero of the wizarding world. The young man had opted to stay at Hogwarts, making appearances during the daylight hours to help with repairs. Otherwise he kept to himself and with the help of the staff, remained hidden in the castle and away from the reporters.
McGonagall made it her business to ensure that Potter was to be left alone. She did politely force him to come down to the Great Hall for dinner, but that was demanded of anyone who happened to be in the school at dinnertime. The headmistress reasoned that dinner was a family occasion and nothing took priority over family.
It was one of the more peaceful times of the day. There was no talk of House rivalry or of the battle. The subject of any former headmasters were avoided, save for once when Flitwick wistfully mentioned the time Dumbledore tried to wheedle him out of the last piece of treacle tart. That prompted a discussion of the many last servings of pudding that Dumbledore managed to coax others into giving him. Usually the staff gave up their dessert without a fuss, as they knew it meant an entire serving of said pudding would later mysteriously show up in their office with an unsigned note that simply said 'enjoy'. Everyone knew the headmaster was behind the note, and the entire affair was done merely in the name of harmless fun.
All talk of the last headmaster was still a touchy subject, no matter how trivial the topic. Filch had no idea what to say, so he kept quiet. Severus hadn't hid the fact from him that he'd killed Dumbledore but he hadn't elaborated either, and Filch didn't know what to think. And taking into consideration that he was the unofficial secret keeper for Severus Snape, Filch figured his safest option was to keep his head low and his observations unshared.
It was still not known that Severus had survived, and Filch had no idea if the hospital staff knew who Severus was. By now they had surely seen the markings on his left arm. Filch didn't consider Severus a true Death Eater; yes, he bore the Dark Mark and had been at Voldemort's beck and call, and while it was hard to say what was on a man's heart, Filch was keen enough to know that Severus wasn't evil. Yet none of that mattered, because the minute someone caught sight of Severus' Dark Mark, Filch knew he was be stigmatised. He just hoped that the staff at St. Mungo's would uphold their end of the bargain and properly care for all their patients, even the ones with a Dark Mark.
If anyone had recognised Severus, Filch had yet to hear word of it. The Daily Prophet continued posting articles that spoke as though the headmaster was dead, and the whispers were no different at Hogwarts. One thing was for certain: Filch desperately needed to see Severus for himself.
He had no idea what ruse was needed, if a ruse was needed at all, in order to visit Severus at St. Mungo's. Filch hadn't been to St. Mungo's for some time, and he worried about visits to the headmaster raising suspicion. Leaving Hogwarts without question was easy enough; he knew Dobby could covertly get him around. It was the whole arguing with the witch at the Welcoming Witch station at St. Mungo's bit that bothered him. He couldn't exactly say why he was there or who he wanted to visit. On top of that, the woman who sat behind the counter was the dippy, dozy-cow sort who seemed to be annoyed when she was inconvenienced by having to move a single centimetre to do her job. You had to repeat yourself a dozen times before she understood you, and by the time you explained what you needed, it was easier to bypass her and find your own way around the place.
It took most of the day for Filch to think of a plan. He kept pausing whilst sweeping yet another corridor, keeping one hand on his broom while scratching his head, then chin.
For a brief moment, Filch tried to remember the last time he shaved. Then he attempted to recall the last time he'd eaten. The tray Dobby had left in his office that afternoon came to mind. Just as he was about to continue sweeping, a nearby portrait loudly cleared his throat, an obvious attempt at wanting attention.
"Apologies for the interruption," the portrait began, recoiling slightly when he saw the sour look on the caretaker's face. The portrait was former professor dressed in ornate yet ancient silver robes and an overlarge coordinating hat that looked silly. He looked out of place in his background that consisted of a field of sheep that kept bleating in between grazing on grass.
Argus could not remember the man's name, but it was of no consequence for him. He continued glaring at the portrait, waiting for the man to state his case.
"Just wondering if there's any idea of when I might be able to return to my original frame," the painting asked, warily eyeing one of the sheep that was making its way in his direction. The sheep paused next to the gaudily-dressed wizard and stared up at him, its jaw moving steadily around a bit of grass. "It's, ah, a bit uncomfortable here as you can seek," he finished, taking his eyes off the sheep and looking goggle-eyed at Filch.
"What's the story with your frame?" Filch asked, even though he was in no mood for chitchat.
"Blasted apart, I'm afraid." The man shook his head. "I don't blame anyone and better the frame than me, but it would be nice to have it restored. I've lived there since Dippet was headmaster."
"Yeah, well, I'll get round to it eventually," Filch grumbled, jabbing the straw end of his broom in the direction of the destroyed corridor. "I'm a bit tied up at the moment, if you don't mind."
"Not at all," the man replied, his voice getting louder when Filch turned around to continue sweeping. "In your time, kind sir, but I do hope it will be sooner rather than later."
"Like I've got time to be worrying about your bloody frame," Filch continued grumbling to himself as he hobbled away.
As far back as he could recall, the portraits were sometimes worse than the living members inside Hogwarts. They could be demanding and a right pain in his arse, particularly after going on the lash and bickering with other portraits. One portrait refused to remain next to another and would loudly demand to be moved further down the wall, or to another part of the castle. Rare was the moment when Filch would cave in, but he often settled the issue by placing the complaining portrait in a dark, dusty rarely used room, which was his version of the naughty step. After two weeks of being in the dark with no one to talk to, the complainer usually decided to play nice and beg to be returned to their original spot. A few were harder to break, and one of these portraits remained in the room for two months before caving in and yelling to be put back in the corridor.
Damn these paintings. I've got more pressing matters that need tending to.
Filch continued wracking his brain for any ideas that would help him get into St. Mungo's. He was on his way to the third floor when the stairs decided to move. Swearing when he lost his balance, Filch wished that he had the ability to Apparate or do anything that would help him move around the school without bothering with the inconvenient staircases.
The shifting stairs was the catalyst to his epiphany; The elf can Apparate, Filch reminded himself. All he needed to do was call for Dobby, who could not only get him into the hospital, but hopefully help him bypass all formalities and lead him directly to Severus's room.
Going with the assumption that St. Mungo's was less busy in the evenings, Filch decided to take his leave shortly after dinner.
Mrs. Norris seemed to know that he was leaving. She kept trying to sit atop his boots, and Filch kept nudging her away before caving in and picking her up.
"I won't be long, girl," he said soothingly, stroking her beneath the chin. "I need to visit the headmaster so he knows no one forgot about him. I can't take you with me but I need you to stay and look after things. Can you do that?"
Mrs. Norris meowed in agreement and allowed Filch to put her back down.
"Dobby," Filch called out, feeling like the world's biggest fool for talking to thin air. "Dobby!"
There was no sound of Apparition or the whoosh of the Floo being activated, and Filch swore under his breath.
"Bleeding elf; couldn't get rid of him before and now can't find him if my life depended on it—" Filch's one-sided rant was interrupted by a loud crack.
"Sorry, Mr. Filch. Dobby was helping in the kitchens."
"It's all right, Dobby. I just... I wondered if you could get me into seeing the headmaster."
"Dobby can do it! Dobby will—"
"Hang on a minute, before you get carried away," Filch interrupted. "No one knows the professor is alive, and we need to keep it a secret for now. Do you understand? No one can see you."
"Dobby understands, sir! Dobby knows how to keep secrets!"
"Shush! All right, you can keep a secret; you don't need to shout. I don't know where Severus is in St. Mungo's so I need you to find out for me. And while you're at it find out where the girl is. She was in a right state the last time I saw her and she's likely still going through it."
"Don't worry, Mr. Filch. Dobby will find the headmaster and his Hermy."
Before Filch could get out another word, Dobby vanished on the spot. Unsure of how long the elf was going to take, Filch decided to sit and wait. Mrs. Norris used that opportunity to reclaim her hold on his lap, and purred contentedly when behind her ears were scratched.
Wonder if I need my coat, Filch mused. It seemed silly to wear the heavy brown overcoat as he wouldn't be travelling in the outdoors, but he rarely took off the thing. The coat was one of the last presents from his wife, and he swore to never get rid of it. As for the practical reasons for always wearing the coat, it had conveniently deep pockets and kept the cold air off his back. There was a draught no matter which part of the castle he visited, and it made his bones ache constantly.
Memories of Rona and the coat which had once been immaculate but now looked lived in three times over, crept into Filch's thoughts. The new coat had been a surprise, but not for any special occasion. Rona had grown tired of his former overcoat, which had been in need of mending every other week due to a large tear down the back. Filch hadn't seen the point in throwing away a perfectly good garment just because it had a little rip, even if his wife insisted that the hole was large enough to drive a lorry through.
When Rona came home and dumped the parcel containing his new coat into his lap, Filch grudgingly handed over the old one. Secretly he'd been pleased with his present, but Rona knew him better than anyone else, and all she did was give a little self-satisfied hum before sauntering away.
Filch chuckled as he remembered his and Rona's tightly knit relationship that had seemed odd to outsiders. The two would fuss openly at one another, but it was all empty bluster. Bickering was how they showed affection but at the end of the day, there was nothing but sweet silence and tender caresses. Rona's family thought Filch was too mean for her, but all naysayers were told to piss off and mind their business. Filch hadn't cared much; the opinions of others meant little to him and with the love of his life by his side, he'd felt as though he had the world in his hands.
"Mr. Filch!"
Mrs. Norris tensed and hissed angrily beneath her master's hands as the house-elf popped into view and startled them both.
"Well? Did you find them?" Filch asked , tightening his grip on Mrs. Norris as she shifted to pounce on the elf.
"Yes, sir," Dobby replied, dodging out the way and hopping up onto a table.
"Very good," Filch replied, standing up and setting Mrs. Norris onto the armchair. "Well, whenever you're ready, just tell me what I need to do."
"We need to hold hands," Dobby replied, jumping down and slipping his small, knobbly fingers into Filch's. "And off we go!"
There was no further warning as the two popped out of a view with a large crack that sent Mrs. Norris hurtling off the armchair and scrambling beneath a desk.
One minute, Filch was in the middle of his cluttered office, stood firmly on his feet. The next, he found himself blinded completely with everything pressing in on him at all sides. He could not see or even take it a breath, and his head, ears and heart felt as though they were about to explode. Just when he could no longer take it, he realised that he was standing unsteadily in the middle of a long, unfamiliar hallway.
"Fucking hell, elf, are you trying to kill me!" Filch wheezed, doubling over while fighting to catch his breath. His stomach seemed as though it had travelled up to his throat, and the pounding in his chest was so great that he felt the urge to vomit.
"Sorry, Mr. Filch. I thought you knew what Apparition feels like. But well done, sir, you didn't get sick!"
Filch wanted to retort that no, he didn't bloody know what Apparition felt like, when the hell did he ever have the opportunity to Apparate anywhere, and that Dobby needed to stop asking stupid questions. But he was too scared to open his mouth, knowing that doing so would invite more than just words to come out.
"We needs to move," Dobby went on in a loud whisper. "House-elves is not supposed to Apparate in St. Mungo's."
"Give an old man a chance to get back his sea legs," Filch groused, exhaling hard while attempting to stand without wobbling.
"But Mr. Filch, I think someone's coming," Dobby trilled, his eyes wide as he tugged on the hem of Filch's coat. "We has to go. The professor is this way."
"You're right, can't stand here looking daft all night."
Dobby was still pulling on his coat. Filch allowed the elf to lead him further down the hall, and nearly trod on Dobby's foot when he stopped short in front of a closed door.
"Ouch! You stepped on my— Oh noes! Hurry, hurry! I see someone down there. Professor Snape is in the room with the blue dots."
Filch wondered if the elf had gone mad, babbling on about a door with blue dots. But sure enough, there it was two feet away from where he stood.
"Go, Mr. Filch. I'll keep watch!"
The footsteps were getting louder, and Filch hurried over to the door. There was a moment of fumbling with the doorknob before he found himself inside a dimly lit room. Too scared to move, he waited until his eyes adjusted to the dark before proceeding forward. There was no time to adjust to the site of the professor, as the room's small size forced him to stand close to the bed. had no time to adjust to the shocking sight of Severus, for he had to rush right into his hospital room to avoid being seen by the staff. Ever since the night when Severus nearly lost his life, Filch would close his eyes and see nothing but the professor, unconscious and covered in blood.
Tentatively taking a step closer to the bed, Filch swallowed hard and dug his hands further into his pockets. This man in bed was far from the imposing figure in dark clothing who easily and sometimes unintentionally intimidated others.
The professor slept so heavily that Filch wondered if he was alive. But there was definitely signs of life as his chest shallowly moved up and down. His hair, face, and other bits of Snape's exposed snow white skin was clean. Bandages covered much of his chest and neck, going all the way up to his chin. Dressed in pale blue hospital issued pyjamas and covered in white blankets, Filch was unnerved to see Severus wearing something that was not black. It didn't seem right; it was almost as though he was looking at the man in a naked state.
Seeing the professor was harder than he'd anticipated, and Filch had to steady himself against the wall.
Pull yourself together, man!
Even though he was breathing hard, Filch regained his bearings and moved all the way to Severus' bedside.
Filch didn't know what to do with himself. He knew it was silly, but he wanted Severus to know he was there. He considered touching Severus's hand but hesitated, solely because he knew the professor wasn't big on physical displays of affection. But these were different circumstances and Filch didn't give a damn, so he reached down to take the unconscious man's hand.
Severus's hand felt like dead weight in his. His bony fingers were rough and cool to the touch, and it made Filch remember the last time he'd held this hand in his.
There were multiple occasions many years ago. The first time was right after a still small for his age, twelve-year-old Severus ran headlong into the caretaker, clutching onto his schoolbooks with a bleeding left hand. Filch knew the cause of the boy's hastiness despite Severus's refusal to speak. The child shook his head when asked if he wanted to be escorted to the Hospital Wing, so Filch led Severus to his office and patched him up there. His hand had felt small and fragile in his, and dirt was encrusted beneath his short fingernails.
Severus was fourteen at the next occurrence, but that time Filch ran into him. It was plain to see that Severus was livid about something, yet he'd been silently livid and walking blindly with purpose. That worried Filch because he knew the young man was about to do something stupid, and he grabbed Severus by the back of his school robes and dragged him to his office before he could do something that would get him expelled and sent back to his unstable parents.
"Why do you keep letting that boy wind you up?" Filch had asked while cleaning Severus's bleeding hand—this time the right—and wrapping it in a clean bandage. By then Severus's hands had grown, and while they still seemed fragile, his fingers were longer and slightly callused.
Severus never responded to Filch's question; instead he'd made an angry huffing sound while bowing his head and letting his longer hair conceal his face.
"I know about that little beast and his mates. That's why I give them grunt work when they get detention."
Severus had been mildly appeased by that information. Eventually he muttered 'thank you' when Filch had finished with his hand, but then he went right back to remaining close-lipped.
"Stubborn as a mule. That's what you were. Still are," Filch thought out loud, chuckling at the remembrance of the child he'd always looked out for. He gently squeezed Severus's hand, hoping he would somehow know that he had not been deserted by all.
Twenty minutes passed, and still there was no acknowledgment of the older man's touch.
"You're not alone, lad," Filch murmured, shaking his head. "You're not alone. And it's not your time. You got a woman that loves you and a lot more life to look forward to. So you need to get yourself on the mend and get your skinny arse out of that bed."
It wasn't as though Filch expected a reaction, which was just as well because Severus remained unresponsive. However, unbeknownst to Filch, his words somehow managed to trickle past Severus's subconscious and he tried to open his eyes at the mention of Hermione. Yet what the mind wanted and what the body allowed completely conflicted and to Filch, it looked as though Severus was still lost to the throes of unconsciousness.
"Can't stay long, but I weren't gonna rest until I saw you with my own eyes. Didn't know how they were treating you and all with that thing on your arm. Anyway, that crazy elf got me here and I need him to take me to check on the girl. But I'll come back, lad, now that I know where you are in this bloody place. Dobby brought me right to your room. Couldn't come through the front door, could I? Not without making that daft bird at the front desk suspicious."
Filch paused, aware of his nervous rambling.
"Just so you know, I feel like an idiot blathering on like this. But I 'spose it makes better sense than me standing here and staring at you with my gob hanging open."
Filch lightly squeezed Severus' hand once more before letting go. He told himself that there was no point lingering, even if time was not an issue. He could have talked himself blue in the face and Severus still wouldn't know who was standing next to him. Yet acknowledging this didn't make things any easier and Filch felt guilty for having to go.
Reminding himself that there was nothing else he could do for Severus at the moment, Filch hurriedly turned away from the bed and headed for the door. There was a strenuous effort to keep a stiff upper lip, and that effort was made easier when he stepped out into the corridor and was promptly scared by Dobby, who had sneaked up behind him.
"Don't do that!" Filch snarled, surreptitiously wiping the moisture from his eyes before pressing a hand to his chest.
"Sorry, Mr. Filch. Are we going to see Miss Hermy now?"
"Yes, if you stop moving long enough to take me to her room. Dunno why you can't keep still for a second."
"Elves is not supposed to keep still. Elves has to move to do their work."
"All right, all right, settle down," Filch conceded, in no mood to get into a debate. "I know you need to move. Now would you mind moving to see if the girl is in a decent state? I don't think she'd appreciate the likes of me barging in on her unannounced at this hour."
Dobby nodded and popped out of view. A moment later he returned, his eyes bright with excitement.
"Miss Hermy has on pyjamas. And a robe. We can go but we has to hurry."
Apparating again was easier this time because Filch knew what to expect. That was the only thing he could expect. He had no idea how Granger was going to react to the sight of him, and there had been no time to ask Dobby about her behaviour upon seeing the house-elf.
"See? I told you I'd come right back," Dobby trilled loudly the moment they landed in the doorway of Hermione's room.
"Shut up!" Filch hissed, rushing behind the house-elf as he darted across the floor. "Do you want someone to hear us?"
Dobby was too busy climbing atop Hermione's bed to sit next to her to answer. When Filch rounded the corner he found the elf standing by her side, Hermione's eyes wide with shock and Dobby's wide with curiosity. Indeed she had on a powder blue robe and pyjamas that had balloons or tiny foxes printed all over; Filch couldn't make out the print as it was mostly dark in the room.
"Apologies for dropping in on you like this, lass," Filch stammered, knowing that he had likely scared the hell out of the girl. Suddenly he felt very unsure of himself. "I probably shouldn't be here like this and I know this isn't the norm, but I only wanted to see how you were. They treating you right in here? Have you enough to eat?"
That seemed to make Hermione less guarded. Physically, he thought the girl looked fine. Her hospital-issued clothing was neat, even if it hung from her thin frame, and her hair looked as though it hadn't seen the likes of a comb in a month. Those two things aside, she looked reasonably cared for. However, he needn't have looked long at her face to notice the obvious misery. Her body was being fed, but her spirit was being starved.
Filch turned away to look around the room. He was shocked to find it mostly bare, and guessed that Granger's means of entertainment was limited to the window opposite the bed. The window displayed a splendid wintry forest, snow trickling down onto the trees and ground. It looked absolutely peaceful, and was no doubt magically conjured and meant to keep patients calm and comfortably numb.
"Is this it? Is that wot they're doing, just keeping you locked up in here with nothing but that bloody window to stare out of?"
Filch jabbed a finger at the window, waiting for an answer. Then he remembered that Hermione had some sort of issue with speech.
"Did they at least give you a book? I know you like your books."
Hoping for even a nod, Filch was disappointed when Hermione's eyes drifted to her lap.
"Well have you been to see Severus?"
The mention of Severus drew Hermione's attention back to Filch, and she stared up unblinkingly at him.
"He, ah, well he's not awake yet, but I reckon he would appreciate a visit from you just the same."
Filch assumed this information would have a positive effect on the girl. To his surprise, she became withdrawn and shrank back into her pillows.
"Come on, child, you have to give me something," Filch told her, in no mood to beat about the bush. "Have you seen him? Nod if the answer is yes."
It took a few minutes, but Hermione finally shook her head, indicating that she had not seen Severus. Her chin went all wobbly, a sure sign of tears. Memories of what happened from the girl's last bout of crying was still fresh on his mind, and Filch felt guilty for instigating her sorrow.
"Don't do that," he pleaded, stepping closer to the bed and stopping short. Filch began rooting through his pockets for a hanky then paused mid-dig, remembering that he wasn't the hanky-carrying sort. If he did have anything that resembled a hanky, it was likely a soiled rag which he would never offer a lady. "I didn't mean to upset you. I'll find a way for you to see Severus. You do want to see him, correct?"
Hermione wiped her face with the heel of her hand and nodded.
"I thought so. And I'll bring you some books. Would you like that?"
Hermione sniffled and nodded again. Filch was relieved when there were no forthcoming tears, and he treaded carefully so as to avoid another meltdown.
"I thought so, now no more crying. You ought to get some sleep now, but I'll come back. We'll come back. We didn't exactly come in through the front door and it would be nice to not end the night by getting arrested because they think I'm some pervert trying to get my jollies off with sleeping patients."
Hermione appeared someone startled by that remark. She recovered soon enough, and began fussing with the tangle of blankets entrapping her legs.
"Let me help please," Dobby interrupted. He snapped his fingers and the blanket uncurled themselves from around Hermione's legs, hovering in the air before neatly falling back to the bed. "Is that better?"
Hermione answered by smiling and briefly squeezing Dobby's hand.
"All right, Dobby, it's late and the lass needs her rest." Filch waved a hand at the elf, motioning for him to get down. He then shuffled around to peer at Hermione. "Right. I might need to say I'm your uncle or summat so those idiots don't get suspicious; you all right with that?"
Hermione's smile was all the affirmation he needed.
"Good night, Miss Hermy," Dobby loudly whispered, waving a hand to extinguish the lamps.
"Good night," Filch emphasised in a quieter voice, glaring down at the elf. "Good night," he repeated in a less harsh tone to Hermione.
His last view of the girl was her head settling against a pillow right before they Disapparated from her room.
Hermione lay awake in bed long after her visitors' departure. She didn't realise how lonely she'd been until Dobby appeared in her room, and seeing Mr. Filch had even been oddly comforting. Yet some part of her wondered if she had been so subconsciously desperate to see a familiar face that the visit hadn't actually happened. The proof did seem undeniable; the musty odour of Hogwarts' caretaker's ancient brown overcoat still hung thickly in the air, and there were tiny house-elf shaped footprints indenting the blankets at the foot of her bed.
Filch was the last person she expected to see—not that she had been expecting anyone. During her more lucid moments, Hermione wondered if she had been forgotten about. It was a stark change considering that she had been on the lam for over year with her face on wanted posters plastered everywhere. A high price had been set upon the heads of her and her friends. It was a relief to no longer live in fear, but now she had other worries.
After getting over her shock of seeing the typically crabby caretaker, Hermione wanted to ask why he was there. Then he mentioned Severus and the only thing she could focus on was not having seen him in what felt like forever, and the ache in her heart that never quite disappeared made itself known with a vengeance.
For a moment it didn't matter that Filch and Dobby were standing across from her; Hermione felt more alone than ever and the only person she wanted to see was Severus. Then the frustration of not being able to speak kicked in, and her emotions went awry.
Having little to no control over her senses was exhausting. The promise of Filch's return and the offer of help so she could see Severus was reassuring, as was the promise of books. It was a little thing that raised her hopes, but it was enough to make her look forward to tomorrow. And it was the only thing that allowed her to close her eyes and have a sleep that was mercifully absent of nightmares.
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Unintentional Inveiglement