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Potions, Plans, and Second Chances	By : strawberryf1re Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 14246 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 4
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe (characters, settings, etc.) ŠJ.K. Rowling. No profits are made from this work.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
Rating: M – inappropriate for readers under the age of 16; contains scenes of explicit sexuality and violence.

Disclaimer: Characters and settings ©J.K. Rowling.

Potions, Plans, and Second Chances

K. Marie

Chapter 7

The scent of Ron's hair was an impossible lullaby; as she lay in her bed, twisting and tossing and turning, sleep evaded Hermione. It seemed an eternity passed as she restlessly shifted beneath the heavy covers of her bed, and yet she couldn't bring herself to flick her wrist in a silent "Tergeo" to siphon the smell away.

The tears that trickled down her cheeks stained the pillow below her. With such a strong aroma and cool sheets, Hermione couldn't help but suspect Fate was once again pressing herself into matters that did not concern her. It almost seemed impossible that a bed that had not harbored a body since morning could release such a strong reminder of the love she dismissed.

Digging her fingers into the softness of Ron's pillow, Hermione didn't bother stifling the quiet sob that escaped her. She hadn't felt so hollow, so empty, since the time Ron abandoned her in those woods so long ago. She tried to remember how sullen he had been, how he had been so distant and easily angered in the many years they had been together; how he had postponed their wedding ceremony, how they had not made love in so long Hermione nearly forgot how his body felt, how he tasted. It was as though he was a stranger to her, and yet…

Turning onto her back, Hermione stared at the ceiling of her bedroom. In the silence of her apartment, even the quiet tick of the clock in the living room seemed impossibly loud. Tears ran silent tracks over her cheeks, warmth pooling in her ears and dripping onto the fabric of Ron's pillow. She had planned a life with him; she had gone so far as picking names for their children. Lifting her hand, her eyes fell on the nakedness of her left finger. Had she made a mistake?

Breathing a heavy sigh, Hermione drew herself from the bed, smoothing her hands over her robes. She caught her reflection in the mirror; spiky eyelashes still wet with tears, eyes that were swollen from her relentless crying. She combed her unmanageable hair back from her face, trembling fingers catching in tangles of riotous curls. Roughly, she wiped the back of her hand across her cheek, brushing away the tears that lingered there. She sucked in as much air as her lungs could contain, holding the breath for as long as she could before releasing it in a noisy sigh.

There was no sense in lying in bed, regretting her decision. She wanted something more than Ron could offer her in his state; she needed something more. She refused to acknowledge the way her mind persistently lingered on Severus Snape whenever she thought of needing more.

Tucking her wand into her robes, she collected her bag before tossing the Floo powder into the hearth. If she would be useless at home, she would go where she knew there was something to occupy her mind: she would return to the hospital where there were notes to be transcribed and records to be filed.

Breathing in a steadying sigh, Hermione stepped through the green flames and emerged in her tidy office a second later. All was as she had left it, and with a quick glance around, she set her bag beside her desk. The tiny china tea set Molly Weasley had gifted her several Christmases ago sat woefully beside the compact coffee maker on a table in the corner, and as Hermione stared at it, longing for tea, she frowned. Sighing softly, she turned towards her desk, pulling back the chair and lowering herself into its comforting cushions. A pretty necklace, a tiny goldenH dangling from the chain, hung around her desk lamp; a gift from Bill and Fleur for her birthday two years previous.

Clearing her throat of the lump that began to rise, Hermione drew open one of the drawers of her desk. Atop the pile of papers that rested there was a small white rectangle; as Hermione turned it over, she would have laughed if she hadn't been feeling so sullen. The photograph was from her time at university; Ron was embracing her around the waist as she held up her apprenticeship offer from Poppy Pomfrey. Breathing in a deep breath through her flared nostrils, Hermione slammed the drawer closed and rose abruptly from her desk.

"This is just ridiculous," Hermione hissed to the empty room.

Her wandering eyes landed on the family portrait of the Weasleys, which was so brazen to include Harry, Fleur, Angelina, and Audrey – audacious only because of Hermione's mood, though she was the only one (aside from Harry and Ginny, of course) that did not bear the Weasley surname. But the entire Weasley family welcomed her as their own, even without having shared the name.

With an exasperated sigh, Hermione abandoned the room in desperation. It was no place for her in that moment when all she could think about was Ron. Without much conscious thought, her feet seemed to drag her on without any direction. The nurse-witch behind the station cast a curious glance, but Hermione ignored her. When she felt her hand rise and press against the door to the stairwell, she suspected she knew precisely where her feet were taking her.

Slowly, Hermione pushed open the door to Severus' room, the telltale creak of the hinges announcing her entrance. She was greeted by a quiet snore, the sound inspiring a small smile to creep across her lips. There was something quite humanizing about snoring, and it was a sound she strangely found endearing, especially in Severus.

The door closed quietly behind her and she rounded the curtain to find her patient reclining rather comfortably in the pile of pillows he had taken to liking. A journal was open in his lap, as though he had nodded off while reading. Sliding the mangled magazine from beneath his heavy arms, Hermione smoothed her hands over the torn and wrinkled pages before lowering herself into the chair.

The irony was not lost on her that, despite everything, she found solace in the company of this man. Her eyes wandered over his relaxed features; the smudgy shadows around his eyes had faded with every day he remained in the hospital, his flesh warm with restoring health. Leaning forward, she brushed a strand of hair from his smooth forehead; he sucked in a deep breath, releasing it in a long sigh.

Resting her cheek against her knuckles, Hermione began reading from the page Snape had left, her eyes roaming over the words with a keen sense of interest. His hand brushed against her arm as he shifted his position in bed, his lips smacking in his sleep before silence settled in the room again. She could certainly understand how the article had lulled him to sleep. The longer her eyes scanned the pages, the heavier her lids became until…

A luxurious feeling of strong fingertips against her scalp stirred Hermione from her restful sleep. As she began to stir, lifting her head on her stiff neck she felt the fingertips withdraw from their nest in her hair; tired amber eyes met ebony and she realized Severus was awake. Bringing her hand to her mouth as a yawn widened her mouth, she felt sleepy tears squeeze out onto her cheeks. A small, tired smile parted her lips as she brushed away her tears.

"It's not quite morning, I hope I didn't wake you," she whispered, her voice as heavy as her eyelids.

"Hardly, Ms. Granger," Severus growled, a bemused expression twisting his features. "I believe I am the one who has done the waking. Why are you here?"

Hermione could have laughed at his forthrightness, but she knew it was a curious situation indeed. Why am I here?

Though it was unlike her, the first words that crossed her mind spilled from her lips. "I am the most unprofessional Healer in the hospital, of course. I couldn't sleep in my apartment. My room smelled of Ron."

He tilted his head to the side, an eyebrow arching in wonder at her strange answer. She would not have been surprised if even Severus Snape realized her response was thoughtless and uncharacteristic of her.

"And your preference is the stale scent of the hospital?"

"Of course not, Sev," she replied, sleepily. "My preference is your company."

The expression that crossed his face in that moment, Hermione could not explain. There was a brief furrowing of his brow, his thin lips tightening across his teeth; a second later, it was replaced by something softer that was revealed only through his eyes. And then any indication he was feeling anything at all vanished; he lifted the journal she uncovered, the pages falling from the binding and flittering to the floor.

Hermione watched the pages fall with rustling whispers, an easy breeze sailing through the window and brushing her hair back away from her face. A blush stained her cheeks as she avoided his gaze, her heart pounding in her chest as she realized the vulnerability of such a statement. She was sure he would begin to mock her, his entire body stiffening as he adjusted his position in the bed.

It was Snape's turn to speak uncharacteristically. With a degree of discomfort, or perhaps uncertainty – though the former seemed more likely – he cleared his throat, turning his gaze from her face to the window.

"You are struggling with your decision."

Breathing in a deep sigh through her nose, Hermione nodded. "Yes."

Silence settled in around them, heavier than any feeling of gloom Hermione was feeling. Needing to busy herself with something, Hermione rose from the bed and pulled her hair back at the nape of her neck. Reaching for a pair of gloves, she drew them over her hands and prepared to examine the dour man.

As she reached for the blankets, Severus made a jerking movement with his arms, clutching at the blanket that lay across his lap. Hermione recoiled her hands, startled, her eyes shifting from his lap to his face; an unreadable expression set against his features, he moved in very deliberate motions to fold the blanket down himself.

"Sev…?"

"I have very little dignity remaining, Ms. Granger," he growled, unfastening his robe for his fidgeting Healer. It seemed he was very careful to avoid meeting her gaze. He folded the gown to his waist, as though the action was only to preserve his dwindling self-esteem; Hermione's eyes flickered over the fabric, a puzzled expression pressing her eyebrows together, but she said nothing.

As Severus laid his hands against the mattress, opening his chest to Hermione for viewing, the Healer redirected her focus to the matter more pressing. The wounds that decorated his flesh continued to emit a gold halo, the dark stitches forming tiny black bridges over the red chasms of his wounds. With a ginger touch, she gently palpated the surrounding healthy tissue, her eyes fixated on the wounds.

"It is for the better, Ms. Granger," Snape ground out through gritted teeth. "Certainly you must realize that."

It took her a moment to realize he was continuing their conversation from earlier, but she shot him a sharp glare before returning her gaze to his abdomen. "I was not aware you were a Seer, Severus," Hermione replied, acidly. "I, for one, was not born with 'the Sight.'"

Though he did his best to conceal it, Severus seemed strangely uncomfortable as Hermione fussed over him. His gaze was fixed upon her as she leaned in close to the infamously troubling wound. It pulled mutinously at its bindings, angry flesh glaring at her through the stitches. With a resigned sigh, Hermione abandoned his abdomen to begin her assessment of his limbs. At this, he seemed to relax, his entire body loosening as he faded into the sheets.

"I do not require 'the Sight'" – he spoke of it with the same disdain she had – "to foresee the probable results of your decision."

As Hermione pressed her weight into his foot, simultaneously testing his flexibility of his left leg and stretching the muscles that had tied themselves in uncomfortable knots in his inactivity, she glared at him with a suspicion. He did not bother to stifle the pleasured groan that escaped his lips as she elongated the muscles of his thigh, but instead allowed a smirk to cross his face.

"If you had any sense, Ms. Granger," he said, his voice oily. "You would see it too."

She was silent through the remainder of her exam, her hands working diligently and expediently over his body. It was only when she was beside him, her hands rolling his right shoulder in tight circles and loosening the tension there, did she speak.

"If you are so omniscient," she began, her amber eyes narrowed as she studied his face, finally releasing his limb.

With a satisfied sneer, Severus reached for the newspaper. Hermione rounded the end of the bed, approaching the medicine cabinet to mix his morning medication. Amidst the quiet clink of the vials against the metal lip of the goblet, Snape finally answered her.

"There are several possibilities, all of which are an improvement on your current situation, if you ask me," he began, coldly. "Either Mr. Weasley will finally seek the help you had so often suggested or you will realize you are happier without him. I fail to see how your shared misery is a preferable circumstance." He accepted the goblet she offered him, swallowing the solution in a quick toss of his head before turning it over to her once more. "Certainly, you are sad now, but it is passing."

With a furrowed brow, she crossed her arms over her chest, the goblet held lazily in her fingers. The remaining potion that lingered within the cup dripped from the lip to the floor, splashing with a quiet drip against the tile. She considered him from this position for a long while; Snape returned his attention to the newspaper in his hands.

"Your sorrow wasn't passing when Lily left you, Severus," Hermione averred, softly. There was no coldness to her voice, no disdain; she stated it as though it were an inarguable truth, an inconvenient fact.

His fingers shifted around the edges of the pages, the rustle and crackle of newspaper grinding together breaking the weighted silence that settled in on their shoulders. The fine muscles of his jaw grew taut as he clenched his teeth, the only indication she had said anything at all. His eyes flickered closed against his rising anger, and he drew in a long, steady breath through long, flared nostrils.

"That was different," he growled, lowering the newspaper to his lap in a deliberately slow and controlled movement.

"How was it different?" she asked, crossing to the window and leaning against the sill. "Tell me how it was different."

"And – pray tell, Ms. Granger – for what reason would I explain anything to you?"

"Because you can trust me," Hermione replied, her voice soft. "Because you know you can."

"And Mr. Potter had not already informed you of why Lily 'left' me?" his question was nearly spat, his voice acidic and his lips paling in his rising anger.

"He didn't tell me much at all, actually," Hermione replied calmly, despite his obvious temper. "He told me that you loved her nearly all your life. That everything you had done – it was for her memory."

"I have made mistakes," Severus growled. "She could no longer forgive them."

"But you—you were so young—"

"It is irrelevant," he interrupted. "It does not matter when it happened. All that matters is that it happened."

Lowering herself to the end of his bed, Hermione set an unsteady hand on his shin. His dark gaze met her own, the ugly flush of his face that accompanied his rising anger slowly paling. He brought his spidery fingers to his face, brushing strands of hair back. The anger that resonated through him was nearly tangible, like heat radiating from flame. Hermione scooted closer to the head of the bed, his hand within reach of hers. Her trembling touch smoothed over the veiny surface of his pale flesh, slowly sliding beneath his palm and tangling her fingers in his.

"I'm sorry, Sev," she said quietly. "It was not my place."

Snape lowered his gaze to their entwined hands, his fingers flexing over her knuckles for a moment. His thumb smoothed over her soft skin before he withdrew his hand, lifting the newspaper once more. Though it was not much, Hermione knew he had accepted her apology, and with the silent – though not unkind – dismissal, she rose from his bed.

"I will be back soon, Sev," Hermione said quietly before she disappeared behind the curtain.

That Sunday seemed to tick away as any normal day would; Hermione saw to it that her patients were proficiently treated and dismissed without much fuss. The "unidentified" patient in the isolation ward spent the remainder of his Sunday afternoon in solitude – Hermione was only able to visit when she had to provide his afternoon dose of his prescriptions, and then she was off again.

If she was completely honest, Hermione appreciated the time away from Snape. It had been such a long time since anyone had been able to evoke such a range of emotions within her, and she had never expected that Severus Snape was capable of such a response. From frustration to elation, he had been able to tease seemingly every emotion from her. She couldn't explain her fascination with him; it felt as though her heart was drawn to him in some strange way, as though it enjoyed the ride he set it on.

Hermione took her late lunch to her office; there were several patient files she needed to review – and some that needed to be filed – and with most of her day revolving around Snape, she had not done well to see that it was finished. An hour into her frantic scrawling, she was interrupted.

"Hermione? It is unlike you to be working on the weekends."

Hermione would have been startled by the sudden voice if she had not sensed the old witch's overpowering perfume. Raising her eyes from her folder, Hermione feigned a cordial smile as she met the gaze of the Head Healer of the emergency department, her dark hair hanging loosely in elegant waves down her back. She did not display the typical uniform of St. Mungo's Healers, either, though her fingernails were a similarly hideous shade of green. Instead, her extravagant dress robes fell all around her in precise folds, glittering prettily with a glamour charm.

For a Healer, she was a bit too preened for Hermione's liking. But then, it was she who signed Hermione's paycheck, so to speak – so Hermione kept her opinions to herself.

"I had free time this weekend," Hermione replied with a small roll of her shoulders. Dipping her quill in her inkwell, she returned to her task at hand.

"How is the John Smith?"

Realizing her boss had no intention of leaving her alone, Hermione resigned to the interrogation that she knew was about to ensue. Replacing her quill into its well, combing her fingers along the feather delicately, she leaned back in her chair to meet the gaze of the woman before her.

"He is slow to recover. I have reason to suspect that his injuries were caused by an as-of-yet-unidentified poison," Hermione answered, seriously. "Though, it is quite curious – some of his wounds have healed without event. Others have required extraordinary measures to show any improvement at all."

"Have you identified him?"

"No."

"Is he speaking?"

"No."

To boldly deceive her superior was to risk everything she had worked for, but she knew if she were honest, it would place Severus at risk. If it were made public knowledge he was freely conversing with his Healer, the chance would be higher that he would be targeted by others in the hospital in attempts to positively identify him.

And if she had answered honestly about her positive identification, she would have betrayed him. Hermione disregarded the scenario as even an option; she had worked very hard to earn his trust and she would continue to build the foundation upon which he would confide in her.

"I find it peculiar he is not speaking and yet the majority of your time is spent on the isolation ward," she replied with an incredulous curve of a finely-tweezed eyebrow.

Lowering her gaze to the files sprawled across her desk, Hermione reached for the quill once more. Matilda Cothrop was not an ignorant witch; she would have to be far from it to have made such a position within the emergency ward. Allowing herself only a second to consider her answers, Hermione made a tiny note on the file below her.

"I've been reading to him."

"Reading to him?" Matilda parroted.

"Yes," Hermione replied, turning her amber eyes back to the icy blue eyes that held her. "I have brought several of my personal subscriptions to his room, and while I have a little spare time I've been reading to him."

"You mean he's illiterate?"

Hermione's stomach began churning as she dug deeper the hole she was standing in. Ducking her hands beneath the surface of her desk, she began to wring her fingers; her gaze never left Matilda's face.

Severus Snape, you had better be damn well worth the risk I'm taking.

"He's far from illiterate, Matilda," Hermione replied. "But he spends most of his time reading. I think he enjoys the rest that being read to allows his eyes."

If Matilda believed her, Hermione couldn't be certain. The witch's hostile gaze – at least, it felt hostile to Hermione, as the icy blue chips of her hard gaze burned her cheeks – was focused on Hermione's face with no change of expression and no emotion haunting their depths. Crossing her arms across her chest, Matilda leaned against the doorjamb.

"I would like you to make it a priority to identify him," Matilda said. "You should know well the risks involved in treating a patient whose history we do not know. I will not allow the hospital to come under fire because we were unable to ascertain his identity."

Nodding curtly, Hermione conceded. "Of course, Matilda."

With a sharp turn, the preened witch disappeared into the hallway, leaving Hermione with a rising nausea and the bitter taste of partially-digested food lingering in her mouth.

As the evening approached and Hermione was finally relieved from her duties, she retired to Severus' room with their meals. Gently, she rapped her knuckles against the solid surface, easing open the door before she was greeted by the man within.

As she pressed the door closed quietly behind her, the faint rustle of paper pages disrupted the silence of the room. A gruff cough cleared his throat, and his oily voice resonated through her as he spoke.

"Ms. Granger?"

"Yes, Sev," she replied, softly. "I thought I would join you for dinner, if you don't mind."

"One can only read so much before their eyes can no longer distinguish the words on the page," he growled, folding the newspaper neatly.

A small chuckle escaped Hermione as she crossed to the medicine cabinet, drawing the usual vials from the drawer. At least her statement to Matilda was partially true, anyway. With the goblet in her hand, she approached Severus, offering him the cool cup and waiting patiently as he drank the solution within. His calm conversation was indication enough that their intense meeting that morning was, as far as he was concerned, in the past.

"Will you be returning to your apartment this evening?" Severus asked, casually, turning the goblet into her hands.

Drawing her swollen lip into her teeth, Hermione chewed it pensively as she mingled between the bed and the cabinet. She replaced the goblet there after cleaning it with a simple charm, turning her warm amber eyes onto the man reclining in his bed.

"I haven't decided," she replied.

With a slight tip of his chin, he acknowledged her response before turning to the magically manifesting table at the foot of his bed. With a small, satisfied smirk – and a poorly concealed glance to his Healer – the heavy tray that was clearly his floated through the air coming to settle levelly on his thighs. Hermione wrinkled her nose in feigned disapproval, reaching for her own tray and lowering into the chair beside him.

For a few minutes, they ate in silence; the quiet clinking of silverware against their plates seeming to echo in the heavy calm of the room. Severus seemed to have no interest in even meeting Hermione's wandering gaze, and she began to feel somewhat misplaced in the room with him. Perhaps her previous assumption had been misplaced, as well.

Refusing him success in dismissing her – she still could not understand the conflicting signals he so often sent her – she cleared her throat delicately, finally raising her gaze from the plate.

"I have been directed to make an effort to identify you," she said calmly, her gaze focused levelly on his face.

A twitch of the fine musculature of his cheek was Hermione's only indication he even heard her. Raising a bite of food to his mouth, his eyes focused on his plate, he slowly chewed his bite of food, as though the behavior was solely meant to allow him time to consider his response.

"I have known you far too long to expect you will simply acquiesce that information," he replied finally, his voice soft yet indifferent.

"My superior requested that I make it a priority."

A moment of silence passed, filled only by the sound of Severus' silverware tapping against his plate as he continued his meal. Chewing through a piece of meat, he turned his gaze to her.

"I have lied for you." There was an uncomfortable intonation in her voice, one she neither forced nor could conceal.

"Shall I thank you for doing as you have promised?" Snape growled.

Hermione turned to her plate, twirling her fork into the nest of noodles that rested on her plate. In the quiet that passed, her senses became suddenly aware of the aroma of food that effused the air. She knew his growing hostility was only a defense mechanism and one he brandished quite efficiently; and yet, there was a warmth that overcame her. He needed her. They both realized it.

"I expect nothing of you, Severus," Hermione said. "You have spent too much of your life at the bidding of others. I will not force you into a situation like that. You have choices here. You can choose to trust me, and you can choose to confide in me. I just want you to know to what lengths I am going to keep you safe."

The quiet tink -ing of silverware suddenly hushed as she spoke and when she lifted her gaze, amber met ebony. The emotions swimming in his eyes were inexplicable to Hermione; it was as though the entire circumstance was a foreign concept to him. With a sudden weight of sadness pressing in against her chest, Hermione wondered if anyone had ever done anything for the man without expecting something in return.

A subtle tremor plagued her hands and Hermione slid them beneath her thighs, trying to quell her trembling. Lowering her gaze to her tray, she worried at her lip, the swollen petal oozing crimson into her mouth. Severus Snape had trusted her in a way, she realized. He had confirmed her suspicion what seemed like so many days ago, and did so at great personal risk. As the silence wore on, he lifted his silverware into his hands and began picking at his meal once more.

"May I ask you something?"

His hands, which had been deliberately precise in sawing apart the flank of meat on his plate, froze; slowly, his gaze lifted to her, his impossibly fathomless eyes boring into hers. For a moment, he simply stared at her, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Yes?"

His response was intentionally acerbic, and Hermione couldn't help but feel her resolve waiver as he spoke. It was as though he desired her company but wished not for her conversation; as though someone desiring to know more about him was exhausting and grating.

"If your identity remaining hidden is so vital to your mission, why did you confirm my suspicion?" Hermione asked, her voice cautious.

"Ms. Granger, you act as though I was not your professor for six years," he growled, an amused aura to his voice. "It would have been futile. Especially once you recovered my patient file." He paused, almost pensively, and then added, "I would prefer that you did not preface your every inquiry, Ms. Granger."

"Of course," she nodded. "I may have been persistent – I can't say otherwise, because I'd be lying – but you could have denied it."

"Considering your historic inclination for meddling in matters that did not concern you, I feared you would have only exacerbated the situation," there was a slight snarl in his voice. "In your incessant quest to know everything, you would have exposed me."

Hermione stabbed disdainfully at the pasta on her plate, feeling resentful but knowing full well he was most likely right. Severus seemed to notice her fouled mood, and with a small smirk – and a harmlessly sarcastic intonation – he amended:

"However, if I must confess, your company has not been nearly as intolerable as I might have first assumed."

It may have been an evasive attempt at kindness, but Hermione's lips parted in a genuine smile nonetheless. She had suspected for nearly six years his callous character was more of a façade – perhaps one that had become quite difficult to shed, but a charade all the same. His recent behaviors – from his kind consolation to his unexpected congeniality – seemed to support her hypothesis.

Though, he has been without any company or conversation for a very long time, hasn't he? Hermione thought, a wrinkle pressing itself into her furrowed brow.

A quiet, rough chuckle escaped the man in the bed, as though her thoughts were playing out before him like a film. "I am not desperate, Ms. Granger. It is rather uncommon to encounter one of my students in the… 'real' world, as it were. Especially," he paused, as if for melodramatic emphasis, "a capable student that may provide interesting conversation."

"So what you're saying," Hermione said, feigning seriousness despite the smile that threatened to tear her cheeks. "Is that you would dread running into Neville Longbottom on the street, but I am an acceptable alternative."

"Barely," he amended.

"I'm barely an acceptable alternative," she corrected, a pleasant laugh shuddering through her body.

"However, I must admit," Severus said, his voice oily in a strangely pleasant way. "If I were forced to choose between you and your two blundering friends…" His voice trailed off, as though he realized that it would be unwise to continue.

His dark eyes flickered from his plate to her face, an odd emotion swimming in the dark depths. Hermione's heart warmed at his consideration and she reached for his arm, her soft hand sliding over his thin forearm, the outline of the silvery scar of the Dark Mark smooth against her fingertips. Gently, she squeezed his hand.

"You would prefer my company over Harry's?" she asked, softly.

In a strange – and rare – display of sensitivity, Severus swallowed hard, turning his eyes from her gaze to stare through the window into the starry sky. His rough thumb came to smooth over her knuckles as his gaze oscillated between the stars that freckled the navy sky.

"Does that surprise you, Ms. Granger?"

"I just – I suppose I just assumed that since you had – well—"

"I never hated the boy," Severus admitted, withdrawing his hand from hers and grasping his knife once more, carving absently at the slab of meat. "Neither while he was in school, nor now. Despite… appearances."

"I know," Hermione answered quickly. "But… you were quite awful to him. To all of us, really," she added, her voice soft with uncertainty.

Hermione recognized well before the words had ever escaped her that she had essentially ended the conversation. Severus did not betray her suspicion, either; as though indicating his wish to end the conversation, he fixated upon his plate. She found it odd he did not snarl her dismissal, yet instead simply silenced the conversation – but the fact she was not ushered out by his waspish tongue was strangely gratifying.

"I never thought you hated Harry, by the way," she amended, nonchalantly. "He doesn't hate you, either. Not anymore."

"I would expect as much."

"Obviously… he had many questions. I imagine he still does," Hermione added with a small shrug. "He talked about you for quite a long time after… after everything. Things made a lot more sense to him. Why you hated Sirius. The fact you kept your memories in your Pensieve."

A quiet grunt was his only response. Hermione lowered her eyes to her plate, pushing around the cold noodles. She heard Severus clear his throat as though he intended to speak, but a long silence followed the rough sound.

"He wanted to talk to your portrait," Hermione whispered, twisting some noodles around her fork absently. "But you were never there."

A small smirk tugged at the corner of Severus' mouth. "That was a clever trick on Dumbledore's behalf."

"Well, I don't suppose anyone would have thought anything of it. There was no reason to assume you were alive."

"Indeed," Severus growled. "The portrait – of course, Potter would insist on its placement in the Headmaster's office – was created in the weeks prior to Albus'…" The way he struggled over the following word pained Hermione in a way she had never expected. "…death." Swallowing hard, Severus cleared his throat before continuing. "It has a sister frame in the laboratory of my home."

"And that's why Professor McGona—"

"Honestly, girl, I believe you have progressed beyond the arbitrary couth required of you as a student," Severus interrupted, an exasperated and annoyed tone infecting his voice.

"Pardon," Hermione amended with a subtle roll of her eyes. "That's why Minerva never suspected anything?"

"It is rather odd speaking to oneself through a portrait," Severus admitted. "I felt rather foolish, initially, when I had begun my tenure as Headmaster, conversing with Albus' portrait. I can assure you, that foolishness only amplified once I was discussing the going-ons with myself."

"So you have… you have kept tabs on everything that has occurred at Hogwarts?" Hermione pressed.

"Loosely. As you may expect, Minerva consulted with both Albus' and my own portraits," his shoulders rolled in a lackadaisical shrug. "While my portrait-self does not wait with bated breath for the next conference, he does return with news."

Hermione folded her arms across her chest with an admonishing glare. "You instructed your portrait-self to avoid Harry."

A small smirk curled the corner of his mouth as he peered at her. A single brow arched up, creasing his forehead. "Perhaps."

An indignant swell heaved her chest, her lips pursed in reproach. "Severus whatever-the-hell Snape!"

The smile that broke across his features at her flustered anger only served to incite her further. She rose to her feet, the tray clattering to the floor in a dramatic display of her aggravation. As she stepped forward, there was an indistinct smush-ing sound as she ground some ration into the floor with her foot. Her hands were thrown in the air in exasperation, her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Do you realize the – do you understand just how – oh, you!" she snapped.

"Rambling, Ms. Granger," Severus said, an oily tone to his voice that coursed through her. "It is unbecoming of you."

Leaning forward on her fists, she inched dangerously close to Severus' face, her frantic, indignant breaths brushing against the skin of his face. The smell of her mouth was not necessarily unpleasant, but the indistinguishable combination of various spices and herbs that lingered in the air between them did not aid his appetite any. She did not seem to care, however; neither for the proximity of her face to his nor the scent she breathed onto him. She was frustrated, and the gleam of Severus' eyes only betrayed his amusement to her.

"He wanted nothing more than to thank you for all you had done for him. He wanted to apologize for the doubt he placed in you, for distrusting you," Hermione cried. "And you—you simply—"

In an animated display of her vexation, Hermione threw her hands into the air once more, blowing a noisy sigh through her lips as she backed away from the bed. Snape's careful eyes studied her as she folded her arms across her chest, her lips pursed in a most familiar way, her eyes burning with her irritation.

"Ms. Granger, I assure you," Severus interjected, his voice calm and his silent magic lifting the tray from the floor and righting the mess that had gathered at her feet. "When the time comes—"

"You'll what? Apparate on his doorstep and say, 'Oh, blimey, Harry. Sorry about the past umpteen years. I've been alive, just doing something important and I didn't want to talk to you until I felt ready.'? And expect everything to—"

"Hardly," Severus sneered. "I expect nothing of him. I hardly think I would be a welcome presence on his doorstep. Despite the habituation that indeed occurs whilst enrolled at Hogwarts, I highly doubt he would respond well to the appearance of a presumably deceased man."

Hermione's chest felt as though it would erupt from her outrage. Severus waved his hand dismissively, a slow and deliberate roll of his eyes directing her to be seated once more. Flustered, yet wishing to shed her frustration, Hermione dropped her puerile pose, her arms lowering to her sides.

After a long and silent moment, Hermione breathed an exasperated sigh and sunk into the chair. Her fingers absently picked at the worn leather that had supported the arms of thousands of patients and family before her, the deep brown color faded away until it was nearly as pale as her own flesh. Severus' dark gaze warmed her cheeks as he studied her, his eyes smoothing over her face as he awaited her next move.

"Why? I don't understand," she admitted finally. "What is your aversion to talking with Harry?"

Shaking her head as though in denial, Hermione tore her eyes from him. She stared beyond him through the window, the sky a fiery orange as the sun began its descent behind the horizon. She simply could not fathom how the man – who had pledged his life to protecting Harry – could claim disinterest in socializing with him.

"Really, Ms. Granger," there was an amused glitter in his black eyes as he studied her. "You speak as though the portrait is actually me."

Frowning, Hermione turned her attention back to him. "You very well know what I mean, Sev. You have directed your portrait-self to avoid Harry like he was the plague. You have denied him the closure he needs to finally place the past behind him. Have you no idea just how your memories affected him?"

"He seems to be faring better than Weasley."

Whatever flashed across Hermione's features in the seconds following his bold statement, a similarly brief expression of remorse flickered across his. There was fleeting warmth in Severus' eyes; it was almost as though, despite being a man of control and restraint, he had failed to curb his cynical tongue and the words that escaped him were goading only through habit. The look of guilt that swam in his eyes was replaced by a defensive coldness, an emptiness Hermione had not seen in some time. And yet, she didn't care. The words were said. The damage, done.

The silence that hung in the air was not unlike the haunting shadows that clung to the corners of the room. Hermione breathed in an unsteady breath; her heart thumped so violently in her chest, the sound of her blood coursing through her veins pumped in her ears. Her emotions were rampant with little she could do to harness them; the shock that he would say such a thing turned to sadness at the mention of Ron to anger that Snape believed he had any right to outrage that the thought had ever crossed his mind. And Snape – well, Snape seemed more than aware of the hailstorm raging violently within the carefully-manicured façade that Hermione had presented to him.

She wanted to believe his intention had not been to hurt her; she couldn't imagine anything he could possibly gain from such a goal. And yet, she seemed to have forgotten the man with whom she was dealing. Severus was the subtlest of assassins; he could twist the blade within the wound before you had ever realized you were bleeding. His blade was his words; her wound was her broken heart.

Her eyelids flickered closed for a moment as she tried, once more, to steady her jagged breath. Drawing her lip into her teeth, she chewed at it until it oozed crimson. For a silent moment, her gaze searched the room, lingering on the shadowed corners and the surfaces that glowed in the setting sunlight. When she finally returned her gaze to the man lying beside her, she released a soft sigh.

To erupt in his presence would devastate the structure of trust she was attempting to erect. Like a game of Jenga, she knew she only needed one opportunity to try the wavering strength of his trust; if she removed the wrong block, the entire tower would crumble between her fingers and there wasn't a damn thing she could do to stop it.

Forgive and forget.

Rolling one of her shoulders and then the other, Hermione loosened the tightening tension that grew in her muscles as she stood before the seemingly emotionless man. And yet, she knew better – he was far from devoid of emotion. A man who had risked life and limb for the son of a woman he loved – Hermione was as guilty as anyone else for romanticizing him. Returning her gaze to his face, she willed her anger to finally fade.

"I think just about anyone is faring better than Ron," she finally said, forcing an indifferent smile.

If he had been expecting her to say something, what actually slipped from her mouth was not it. A curious expression settled into his countenance, his brow furrowing and the corner of his mouth twitching.

"So it would seem," he replied, lifting a bite of roasted potato to his mouth.

The next several minutes passed without a word. Hermione was staring disinterestedly at her tray, listening to Snape's silverware tap against the china of his plate. When finally he finished, she tapped her wand against the trays, vanishing them from view. When it did not seem that conversation was impending, he reached for the stack of journals – which, Hermione noticed, was growing ever shorter.

"Sev," she said quietly, rising from the chair. "May I?" With a gesture to his abdomen, she began loosening the modesty ribbon that secured his gown.

Lowering the magazine into his lap, he brushed Hermione's hands away from his neck and rolled the gown down on his own. With a concealed smile – she furrowed her brow and tried to force the downward tug of her lips – Hermione allowed him the bit of freedom he had taken to appreciating. When finally his chest was exposed to her, she reached for a pair of gloves and drew them over her fingers.

"Do you see this, here?" With a gloved finger, she prodded the rebellious wound.

With his chin pressed to his chest, Snape followed her direction. When his gaze finally landed on the injury, Hermione continued. "The rest of your wounds are holding together well with the stitches. But this one" – and with a tender touch, she fingered the angry edges of the laceration – "continues to pull. With few options left, I think it is about time we try the alternative treatment."

"The one you have been so hesitant to begin," Snape said, his voice quiet.

"Precisely," Hermione replied. "I'm going to prepare the potions tonight. After maturing for twelve hours, they will need to be immediately administered."

"Very well, Ms. Granger."

With a flick of her wrist, she gestured for Severus to pull the ribbon closed around his neck once more. Slipping off the gloves, she discarded them and set her hands against her hips.

"Once I set the potions to mature, I will be returning home for the evening." Tipping her head in the direction of his breast pocket, she smiled. "If you need anything."

It was nearing eleven o'clock when Hermione finally closed the apothecary. Two cauldrons were set to simmer overnight; as she had explained to Severus, in twelve hours, they would be immediately administered. She knew it would be an uncomfortable process for the man and as much as she was loath to inflict such a thing upon him, she knew she had little choice in the matter.

She had little doubt that he knew precisely the weaponry of his assailants. The characteristics of the wounds indicated a poison that disturbed healing, which, in itself, was not difficult to counteract. The challenging aspect of his treatment was that she was no closer to an answer than when he had laid, battle-scarred and bleeding, on the bed in the emergency ward.

Restless feet carried her down the stairwell and through the main entrance to the hospital. The soft golden lamplight offered little more illumination than the moon's own feeble glow. Passing by the lamps, the flitter of insect wings against the glass broke the silence of the late night. Casting a long glance over the road before her, Hermione decided she would follow the longer route home; anxiousness drove away all thoughts of rest.

Turning to follow the sidewalk, Hermione's quiet heels clicked softly against the pavement. Her pace was slow and there was no hurry; idly walking, her mind wandered as her feet guided the way.

An interesting feature she had discovered about Snape was his aversion to spontaneity. If he maintained control of the course of a conversation, his waspish tongue and crass sarcasm reigned. The moment the interaction steered away from his tight grasp, however, he grew agitated and apprehensive. She suspected it was the cause of his aversion to her questions; while he had the ability to learn her intention before she even spoke, she hardly thought he abused the power.

Was it such spontaneity that earned him his admission in the hospital to begin with, she wondered? Did he encounter an enemy whose mind was a blank slate, therefore prohibiting Severus from knowing clearly his opponent's next move? It was dangerous circumstance, and if it had been to blame for his unease when she governed the interaction, she could not honestly blame him. His perspicacity had been his strength; without it, he was vulnerable.

Tucking her hands into the pockets of her robes, she breathed in a heavy sigh. A breeze drifted through the air, tickling the back of her neck and raising gooseflesh along her skin. It was a cool night, and fleetingly, Hermione regretted forgetting a traveling cloak. With a whispered incantation, she was protected from the biting breeze, a warming charm settling in around her.

Had she been asked as a student if she ever expected Professor Snape to be responsible for the emotional turmoil she had experienced in recent days, she would have laughed. Certainly, there was confusion about him; one could never be certain whose side he was truly on. Hermione had always hoped Dumbledore's trust was not misplaced, though the ancient wizard never gave a single reason why he was so certain. But nevertheless, a tiny bead of hope remained, despite all that Snape had done.

All that he had done… As she thought on his actions, she felt pressure behind her breastbone as though her heart was crushed under the knowledge. How truly lonely the man must have felt in the year following the arranged murder of Dumbledore.

It wasn't really murder though, was it? Euthanasia.

Hermione had never understood the debate surrounding the controversy; she always believed it was one's own right to die, if death was unavoidable. From what Harry had explained to her, Dumbledore's death was indeed inevitable. A bubble of anger rose in her chest as she considered precisely what it was Dumbledore requested of Severus; an incredibly selfish behest. Dumbledore had been, quite possibly, Snape's only remaining confidante. He certainly was the only man to know Severus. How could he have ever asked such a terrible favor?

He needed her. It explained everything. Severus Snape needed Hermione, and he knew it as well as she did. And it frustrated him. He had gone so long without having anyone; to suddenly rely so strongly on another human being made him vulnerable, and Severus was uncomfortable with such vulnerability. It explained everything from the rapid oscillation of his moods to his desire for her company. It all made sense. And it left her with a bittersweet taste.

When Hermione arrived at her doorstep, she was admittedly quite surprised to find herself standing outside her apartment complex. She had no conscious grasp on her location, and as though her feet had known the way to go, they had guided her safely home. The building was nearly silent as she padded up the stairwell. Turning the doorknob to her own apartment, she slipped quietly through the door and locked it behind her.

When Hermione abandoned his rooms that evening, Severus was left with bittersweet feelings. Her presence – and his knowledge that she was without a partner anymore – stirred strange emotions within him. Despite all that had transpired between them within the short amount of time she lingered in his room, the only verse that repeated in his mind was the one he found most… most what?

"You have spent too much of your life at the bidding of others. I will not force you into a situation like that. You have choices here. You can choose to trust me, and you can choose to confide in me. I just want you to know to what lengths I am going to keep you safe."

She understood far more than he accredited her for. With her limited knowledge – he had no clue the extent to which Potter had enlightened her, but from what she had said, it seemed scant – she understood very well the general course of his life.

Shifting his legs beneath the covers, he released a quiet groan as the taut musculature stretched in the movement. A luxurious wave of pleasure washed over him, bringing to mind the memory of her massage and the way she loosened his limbs each day. Even considering his injuries – his hand gently roamed over the wound she would treat aggressively in the morning – his body felt strangely renewed.

With a small shrug, he realized he never questioned her regarding his nightly prescriptions; he had suspected for awhile she was slipping him a sleeping potion, but with an indifferent realization he understood it was irrelevant. Despite the disturbance of dreams, the rest was rejuvenating and surely contributing to his recovery. He was almost certain he slept better in recent days than in his entire life; the feeling of security she managed to provide him was no doubt a contributing factor.

"You have choices here."

For once, he was not at the mercy of a superior. Neither a deranged and paranoid warlock nor the Machiavellian sorcerer, Severus Snape was granted choice. He was allowed options; freedom was his.

"You can choose to trust me, and you can choose to confide in me."

His dark eyes were fixed on the far wall, though he was unseeing. Hermione had gone to such lengths to prove she was trustworthy. She had risked her own employment to ensure he was safe. Severus would have wagered she would risk her life if it meant to keep him safe, and while he abhorred the thought of her blood on his hands, he could not help but admit to himself the warm feeling of being cared for.

She cared about him. He suspected it surpassed her obligatory care-giving; she had exposed herself to him in such a way to allow him to witness her at her most vulnerable. She had confided in him that which he doubted she shared with anyone else. She wept before him. He was audience to her separation from her fiancé. Her blind trust in him was both foolish and endearing.

Turning his sightless gaze to the darkening sky beyond his window, starless in its overcast gloom, he released a quiet sigh. Granger – Hermione – would be the death of him. She cared, and caring would only end in pain. It would elicit carelessness; caring would lead to irrational decisions and ignorant valor. Though as his rationality tried to force her away, his emotionality longed to keep her close. There was something painfully familiar about her; her mannerisms, her etiquette – it was all warming in a way he had not experienced for a very long time.

Slipping the smooth pages of the journal between his rough fingertips, Severus lowered her gaze to his lap. The subscription from which he read had not been on his list – Hermione provided it for him with the thought he may enjoy it. She had been right; it was a normal charms periodical, but the particular issue she had given him detailed what were called "linking" charms – a particular magic that had both laced his Mark and the coin she had provided him. It was not an unknown topic to him, of course, but it was an interesting intimate review of the form of magic.

Drawing his finger across his lower lip, Severus stared at the open pages for a very long time. It was nearly impossible for him to focus his mind; no matter what he tried to preoccupy himself with, Hermione invaded. When had he even begun thinking of her as 'Hermione?' It drew her closer to him in a way which he was uncomfortable; it personified her in a way that was unacceptable. She was his Healer and that was what she would remain. She was wrong; he did not have choices.

"Headmaster."

The gloomy night sky burst to life with a bright explosion of lightning, the streak dancing across the velvet darkness. The rush of light cast Albus in a haunting silhouette, the ancient wizard standing before the great windows of his office, staring pensively into the courtyard below. Severus' fists pressed against the hard surface of his desk, trembling arms fighting to support his weight as his willpower began to wane.

"Do not make me do this, Albus."

"Severus, you gave your word."

A loud crack reverberated through the room as Severus slammed his fist onto the desk, his rising anger overwhelming any restraint. With the sharp sound, Albus turned on his heel to face the younger wizard, his pale blue eyes icy chips of indifference.

"Have you no idea what he will force me to do?" Severus demanded, his chest broadening in his indignation as he stared disdainfully at the man across from him.

"I certainly do, Severus. And it is irrelevant."

With flaring nostrils, Severus turned away from the Headmaster, his black robes billowing around his feet. As they came to settle in elegant folds, he drew the hood over his hair, the silvery glow of the mask in his hand glittering in the soft candlelight.

"It is justified, Severus. You must remember that."

"There is no justification for what will take place tonight, Albus."

"Good morning, Sev," Hermione greeted. A quiet tink-ing came from her pockets, her fingers lazily toying with the vials there.

With a slow nod, Severus acknowledged her but did not tear his gaze from the newspaper. His Healer did not seem at all concerned with it; instead, she simply emptied her pockets of the vials and began preparing his standard morning cocktail. Absently, he drew the goblet from her hand, lifting it to his lips and swallowing the solution, his eyes still focused on the article.

"If you're interested, I've… thought of a way of avoiding anyone else identifying you while you're here," she began, retrieving the goblet from him and cleansing it of any lingering potion.

Lowering the newspaper, Severus peered at her through his lashes. Slowly, one black eyebrow crept up his forehead as he waited for her answer. She turned from him, pouring a yellowish potion into the goblet and churning it with her wand.

"I'll destroy your old file."

She may have just commented on the weather, her voice held such apathy. She passed him the goblet once again and as he drank the solution within, his eyes never left her face. The potion slipped down his throat like water and he returned the cup to her. Surely what she was proposing was not as anticlimactic as she was suggesting. Destroying a patient file, something which was hospital property?

"Is that a viable option, Ms. Granger?" Severus asked, grimacing as the aftertaste of the potion struck his taste buds.

With a roll of her shoulders, Hermione came to his bedside. "I'm willing to take the risk. Lower your robe, will you?"

With a slow nod, Severus unfastened the ribbon around his neck, lowering his gown to his lap. Hermione's fingers crept into a pair of gloves, curling around the material until they were comfortable to contain her hands. Bringing another vial out of her pocket, Hermione twirled the neck of it in her fingers, the dark solution within sloshing against the glass.

"This is my last resort for your wounds, Severus. If this doesn't heal these injuries, I'm not sure what will." She leaned over him, her elbow supporting her weight against the mattress. "This will be very uncomfortable."

"I would not expect anything else, Ms. Granger."

A small, apologetic laugh escaped her as she drew the stopper from the vial. "Take a deep breath, Severus."

She did not allow him much time between his sharp intake of breath and the sudden application of the potion. She tipped the vial in her fingers, the liquid pouring into the wound that seemed determined to tear away from its stitches. Severus had expected the sigh of the devilish potion she had been applying, and the silence that accompanied the application was unnerving. It was a brief second before the pain settled into his body; the explosion of agony plaguing him not only at the sight of application but throughout his entire abdomen, as though every nerve-ending in his body was firing off and protesting in pain.

The pain that burst from his jaw as he ground his teeth was pittance in comparison to the overwhelming torture that surged through him. It was as though Hermione had driven a searing blade into the wound, dragging it across his stomach and gutting him. Tears began running silent tracks down his cheeks as his abdominal muscles began convulsing against the pain. From beyond his own grunts of agony, he heard Hermione whisper something; in a split second, his arms and legs were secured to the posts of his bed, prohibiting him from curling into himself against the pain.

As the pain dissipated – and a slow fade it was – Severus finally opened his eyes. He had not noticed the black spots that tarnished his vision when his eyelids were clenched against the agony, but they began to shrink the longer he lay blinking at the ceiling. Hermione was seated beside him, her fingers clutched tight around her wand. Her eyes were glossy, as though to witness such writhing pain was an emotional toll upon her as well.

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered, her voice tremulous.

Turning his gaze from her to the ceiling, Severus tried to grasp his faculties. The spoken word seemed to escape him, and as he stared at the white ceiling, he tried to combine words to form comprehensible sentences but the aftershock of pain continued interrupting his attempts. He felt Hermione's warm hand close around his secured forearm, the pressure of her palm pressing in against his Mark.

Finally, English seemed tangible.

"I… understand why you… hesitated," he managed.

A small, pleasant laugh escaped her and she slid her fingers along his forearm. She was tracing the shape of his Mark, slender fingertips following the contours of the skull and the serpent. The tender touch tickled gooseflesh along his arms, her fingers smoothing through the prickly skin.

After a moment, she finally released his bindings; his wrists and ankles fell loose from the posts. He made no move to draw the limbs into the bed, however – his muscles were screaming in protest at the barest of movements. Her fingers only abandoned his forearm to lace within his own.

"Imagine if I had to apply it to each of these wounds," she whispered, her eyebrows furrowed in her frown.

"I would rather not," Severus growled, his fingers tightening around her hand.

After a quiet moment, he shook her hand from his, scowling at the pain suffusing his muscles as he brought his limbs to a reasonable position on his bed. Hermione rose to adjust the blankets over his bony feet, her eyes lingering on the strange elegance of his long toes, the soft tuft of black hair that danced along the tops of his feet. His ankles were narrow, as one would expect of a man who was so thin; as she glanced to his face, she smiled as she noticed the filling of his hollow cheeks.

Drawing the blanket over his feet, Hermione rested her hand against his bony shin. "You are looking better every day."

With an amused wag of his eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugged into a smirk. His dark eyes passed over her face, her cheeks stained with the faintest of flushes. With a gentle squeeze, she bade her silent farewell, turning on her heel and leaving him to his own devices as she tended to the rest of her duties for the morning.
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Potions, Plans, and Second Chances