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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
- 7
- 8
- 9
Rating: M – inappropriate for readers under the age of 16; contains scenes of explicit sexuality and violence.

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

Author's Note: It was brought to my attention by a very conscientious reviewer that I made an assumption that all of my readers would understand my intent with the disillusionment charm in a previous chapter. My belief is that if individuals are disillusioned by the same caster, they are able to see each other. I never saw any indication that this would be false in my research, so I'm using it to my advantage. Thank you for being so constructive in your reviews, guys! You've no idea how much I appreciate it! Please don't hesitate to point out inconsistencies that you may see – I don't have a beta, so when I'm reading and re-reading my chapters before I post them, I may miss something that is unclear or contradictory.

Potions, Plans, and Second Chances

K. Marie

Chapter 8

As time progressed, Severus' recovery was astounding; it seemed with every passing hour, Hermione found herself performing less of Severus' personal tasks as he regained his independence. Granted, it had taken several days to arrive at a point where he was capable of significant movement, but had he been admitted to a Muggle hospital – well, Hermione doubted he would have shown any improvement at all.

Severus was able to follow her direction with his range-of-motion exercises with each examination (much to his relief, she suspected); Hermione refused to acknowledge the ache of disappointment that she could only assume resulted from the fact she had one less excuse to feel him beneath her fingers.

The stubborn unhealing wound had finally succumbed to treatment; after the unpleasant application Monday morning, it ceased tugging at its stitches, finally beginning the slow process of sealing itself. Much to their mutual relief, too – Severus wasn't too thrilled about having to endure the experience again and Hermione was not one to enjoy inflicting such pain, even for the betterment of her patients.

Silently, Hermione cursed herself for being so hesitant to administer it in the first place. Of course, she had not known if it would be successful, and so really, she could not be blamed. If she had, Severus may have been eligible for discharge had she gone ahead—but there was nothing for it now. He was finally recovering as she had hoped, and even without knowing the weaponry of his assailants, he may be healthy enough to leave the hospital within days. For some reason, the thought of his discharge inspired a dull ache within her heart.

Tuesday morning, Severus awoke to the sickening scent of his own body. Had it been three days since his shower? With a frown, Severus realized his concept of time was nearly nonexistent; he would have to remember to request a calendar and a clock the next time his Healer passed through. Pulling his fingers through his hair, he grimaced at the texture of his roots; for all the names his students had been so clever to conjure during his tenure at Hogwarts, "greasy" had been the most accurate – as long as Severus had been unable to shower.

Like clockwork – he assumed, as he had no clock to refer to – the gentle tap tap tap of slender knuckles announced her presence, the whine of aging hinges stretching through the room as she pushed open the door. With a quiet snick, the door was closed, and in a whisper of fabric and gentle footsteps, Hermione appeared around the curtain.

Her amber eyes were glossy as though she had just woken, smudgy shadows circling her eyes and exaggerating her sleepless gaze. In her fatigue, the fine lines around her mouth – laugh lines, he thought pleasantly, from when his mother had described her own deeper-set wrinkles – seemed deeper somehow, as though the life she had lived had aged her significantly. And of course, it would have, wouldn't it? She had seen more in her twenty-some years than most witches would see in a lifetime. With a small smile, she offered an arbitrary greeting to Severus, her fingers massaging the bags beneath her eyes.

She looked so tired and yet he couldn't imagine why. Had Weasley paid her visit the evening prior? Had she spent her entire night pondering the consequences for destroying hospital property? Perhaps she had been thinking of him—

Nonsense, Severus. Since when have you been one to grow so pathetically hopeful over the pining of a woman?

The usual small talk of the morning filled the silence while Hermione fussed over the medicine cabinet, her hands rummaging through the drawer to pluck out the proper vials. A question about sleep quality, if there was anything else he needed – a bedpan, perhaps? – and a genial suggestion that as long as his wound continued holding, perhaps ambulation was impending.

As Severus tipped his head back, swallowing his morning potions, his breakfast tray appeared at the foot of his bed. Hermione withdrew the goblet from his hand, replacing it atop the medicine cabinet; her busy hands then grasped the tray and gestured to lay it across his lap.

"Actually, Ms. Granger," Severus began before she laid the meal across his thighs. "I would like a shower."

"Of course," Hermione replied with a nod, replacing the tray on the table. "In that case, I need to examine you." With a quick flick of her wand, he assumed his meal would be kept hot as they proceeded with his request.

When Hermione drew in near to him, her touch was fleeting and gentle, skimming over the flesh of his limbs. He circled his own shoulders in their sockets, mimicking her guidance; she still assisted him with the flexion at his hip, though only just. Her assessment slowed dramatically as she returned to his abdomen, gloved fingers smoothing over the mended bones and along the borders of his stitched wounds. Each wound glowed with a golden hue, the effects of that dreaded little vial; the largest of his lacerations did not glow at all, and as Hermione pressed her fingers against the lip, Severus winced as a wave of pain coursed through him.

With a thoughtful hum, Hermione withdrew from his bedside for a moment, returning to the medicine cabinet. A creaky drawer rolled open, a different one than she usually browsed, and after a quiet moment of searching, she withdrew a small roll of what appeared to be tape.

As she turned towards him, she waved the roll in the air. "This is a waterproof bandage of sorts. I would normally cast the charm, but I don't want to alter the properties of the potion, and quite honestly… I'm not entirely certain how the two will interact. It is not as though they are commonly introduced to one another, and I have not yet had the opportunity to research the matter."

With a slow nod, Severus laid back into his pillows. Hermione returned to his bedside, her hands gingerly applying the tape over the belligerent wound. Despite the delicacy she tended him with, the pressure against the borders of the injury still sent violent tendrils of agony twisting through him, as though the nerve endings were still ablaze from when she applied the potion in the first place.

Finally, she withdrew her hands, slipping the gloves over her fingertips and disposing of them. With knuckles pressed against her hips, Hermione considered him with a small tilt of her head. Severus fastened the ribbon around his neck, covering his bare chest with the thin patient gown.

"How strong are you feeling?" she asked.

"Strong enough to walk myself to the wheelchair," Severus growled.

With a small smile, Hermione's eyes blazed with something; she turned with an impressive swirl of lime-green – as impressive as a swirl of lime-green could be, anyway – and disappeared behind the curtain and through the creaky door. A moment later she returned, the squeal of wheels filling the room as she guided the wheelchair to his bedside.

"As we've done before," Hermione began, coming to his side to assist him to standing.

Slowly, Severus swung his legs over the side of his bed, the slight chill of the air raising prickly flesh along the hairy skin. Touching the pads of his feet to the cool tile floor, he sat for a moment; Hermione wriggled her way beneath his arm, her own hand coming round to grasp his bony hip. The warmth that flanked him from either side was calming in a way; the scent of her hair and her body lingered between them, overpowering his own odor. In a fleeting feeling of shame, Severus hoped he was not unpleasant to stand beside.

"On three," Hermione said, her grasp on either side of him tightening as she flexed her fingers.

"One," his voice joined hers. "Two… three."

With a quiet grunt, Hermione supported his weight as he leaned into her, her feet firmly planted against the ground. His eyes were fixed on the chair before him, small steps sliding across the floor, the gritty feeling of tiny grains of dirt grinding beneath his fleshy pads. A moment later, Severus' hands were wrapped tightly around the arms of the wheelchair and he was maneuvering himself in a small circle. With small hands tightly grasping his hips, he lowered himself into the wheelchair; a long, relieved breath escaped him noisily through his lips.

Kneeling down before him, Hermione set her hands on his lap, her amber eyes searching his face. "How are you feeling?"

"Worse than I would like to admit," Severus replied.

"But you aren't gasping for air or having a panic attack," Hermione jested, rising to her feet with a small, pleasant laugh. "And that is much of an improvement."

As the wheelchair began its journey towards the shower room, Hermione remained by its side, her fingers wrapped around one of the handles. "You have much greater range this time, Severus. If you would like—"

"As much as I appreciate your offer, Ms. Granger, I am afraid I am still dependent upon you," Severus interjected, turning his gaze to meet hers. "However, the pretenses of this experience are no different than before, in my opinion." With an uncharacteristic smile, Severus asked, "Who are you, again?"

As though misunderstanding his sorry attempt at a joke, Hermione's eyebrows furrowed in concern. As he continued looking at her, the smirk on his face never waning but one black eyebrow creeping up his forehead, her features softened, her cheeks staining red.

"Oh! Yes, right," she said, flustered. "Your Healer. Healer Granger."

With a gruff chuckle, Severus shook his head. "Ms. Granger, you may be the most improper and unethical Healer this hospital has employed," he began, a playful glint glittering in the depths of his eyes. "But lest we forget you are my Healer, and for the time-being, that is all you shall be."

Ducking her head, Severus suspected Hermione was attempting to hide the ever-growing flush that reddened her face. When they finally reached the showering room, she hurried forward to hold open the door for the rolling wheelchair. Footsteps and creaky wheels echoed against the tiled walls; with a whisper, Hermione charmed her robes to expel water, and cast the same spell upon the chair. With another flick of her wrist, the faucets opened and the room was filled with the sound of rushing water. Severus raised his arms to remove the gown, discarding it on the floor.

The chair rolled forward and Severus could not help the pleasured groan that escaped him as the hot water flowed over his body. For a long moment, he simply sat there, enjoying the feeling of heat rolling over him.

Somewhere behind him, Hermione's voice bounced off the walls. "If you need my help with anything…"

"Of course, Ms. Granger."

With his hand raised, a silent incantation rehearsed in his mind, the bottle of shampoo lifted to his hand. Though the tension in his shoulder had long since been relieved, Severus found himself apprehensive to begin washing his hair; the feeling of dependence that accompanied Hermione's assistance with washing his hair – despite the luxurious feel of her fingers against his scalp – was nearly as loathsome as the subservience itself. As he raised his arms and began the task, he breathed a soft sigh.

"Your shoulder is doing better, then?" Hermione asked, as though she were aware of the turmoil of his mind.

"Indeed."

Hermione said nothing in response, and as Severus cast her a glance over his shoulder he noticed she was busily folding and re-folding his towels, as though to keep her hands busy and her eyes averted. It was a tiny gesture, but it spoke volumes to Severus; with a small smirk, he smoothed his hands over his wet hair, rinsing away the soap.

The task of washing his body would not come so easily. When Hermione registered his grunts and groans as discomfort and struggle, she rounded his chair; with a washcloth in her hand and an expression flustering her features as though she were trying desperately to focus only on his face, she began gently cleansing his legs and feet. Her hands roamed over sinewy muscles, her firm fingers massaging his calves as she rinsed away the soap. Her ginger touch maneuvered around his thighs as well, her eyes focused beyond his shoulder as she tenderly scrubbed his skin. Quiet sounds escaped him as her hands smoothed over him; pleasured sounds he knew he ought to suppress, and yet he didn't care.

The water moved over her like she was made of glass; droplets formed at her crown and rolled down her face without leaving a trail. Water clung like diamonds to her eyelashes and as she blinked, the drops fell to Severus' lap. As he watched her clean him, her gaze carefully averted towards the wall, he drank in the beauty of her; for a moment, he imagined her like a marbled statue, one of the statues that guarded the halls of Hogwarts. Her cheeks were stained and he couldn't tell if it was because of the heat or because of her proximity to him, but it was irrelevant; the red flush of her cheeks only intensified his attraction to her, and he inhaled deeply, his senses somehow managing to ignore the plain scented soap to detect the aroma of her. So familiar, so soothing.

As his body began to respond to her presence, he breathed, "Ms. Granger…"

Her gaze shot to him, her amber eyes widened but not panicked; despite the steam rising from the water surrounding them, he could feel the heat of her breath on his face.

"What is it, Sev?" she asked, quietly, the rapid saccade of her eyes roaming his face. Her eyelashes fluttered as reflex forced her to blink as water danced along her eyelids.

"I can manage from here," he growled, leaning forward before she backed away. A depraved gesture, perhaps, but his body brushed against her breasts and the whispering contact only encouraged his reaction to her.

She recoiled, her hands reaching out to grasp his shoulders. "Are you certain?"

With a rough jerk, he shook her hands from his shoulders. Hermione backed away from him with a quiet 'tut,' a puddle forming around her feet as droplets rolled off of her. Her quiet step echoed in the confines of the small tile room.

In his mind, Severus began reciting potions ingredients; his hands rested atop his thighs, a strategically-arranged washcloth over his groin. Allowing his eyes to flicker close, he breathed in deeply through flaring nostrils; Hermione was indeed an attractive woman, but did it warrant such a depraved reaction from him?

For Merlin's sake, Severus. You're behaving as though you've never known the touch of a woman. Billywig sting slime. Boomslang skin. Griffin claw. Rat spleen.

Severus smoothed his hands over his skin, rinsing it clean of the soapy residue. Casting a sidelong glance over his shoulder, he caught sight of his Healer; her hands were, once again, seeking preoccupation by folding and refolding the soft white towels that rested against the sink. The sound of flowing water nearly drowned the sound of her footsteps as she moved anxiously. Severus' face broke in a small smile as he tipped his face into the stream of water; in a moment of weakness, perhaps, or sentimentality, he wondered how he had never noticed her more charming characteristics in the past.

Because she was your bloody student. Are you mad?

Shaking his head as thought trying to shed from it his improper thoughts, Severus rolled his wheelchair back out of the water. A soft towel came around his shoulder as the water's fall stopped abruptly; his fingers grasped the towel quickly, tucking it into his lap and reaching for the second he knew she had brought. As she passed it into his hands, Hermione stood back away from him, allowing him a moment to dry himself off.

A moment later, his Healer was behind him once more, her gentle hands smoothing a third towel over his long hair, wringing out the excess water. Soon, she was pulling a brush tenderly through the length of black curtain, easing out the tangles. Her fingers soon followed, gently massaging his scalp as she combed through his hair. Severus released a soft groan; the ways she made him feel were indescribable and comparable only to one other person. A genuine smile parted his lips as he reminisced, pretty emerald eyes glittering in his memory.

"Sev," her voice was sing-songy as she spoke. "Let me brush your hair?"

"Why would you want to do that?" Severus asked, lifting a clump of lank black hair from his shoulder.

With a sweet smile, Lily turned her head to the side, drawing her lip into her teeth. Her piercing eyes skittered over his face, darting from his own eyes to his crown and down to his chin and shoulders.

"Just let me," she pleaded, crawling across her bed to where he sat at the head.

Turning his hips, he hung his legs over the side of her bed. Her legs flanked his hips from behind, her body pressing into his back as she leaned towards her vanity. Her thin fingers wrapped around the handle of the brush, drawing it in toward her; her other hand was busy combing delicately through the length of his hair.

The splish of dripping water echoed off the tile walls as Hermione passed a crisp gown over Severus' shoulder. The steam that thickened the air had begun dissipating, but its heat still drew sweat to his skin; wiping the warm towel over his face, he turned to Hermione. She seemed to be suffering the same; her forehead and cheeks were shiny, a pink flush staining her cheeks.

Drawing the gown over his shoulders, Severus fastened it around his neck and rolled the wheelchair towards his Healer. Lifting the damp towels from his lap, Hermione opened the door to allow him exit. The chair rolled slowly, the cool air of the hallway prickling gooseflesh along his exposed skin. A moment later they were passing through his doorway.

"It is a bit more difficult to transfer from your wheelchair to the bed," Hermione began, sliding her fingers along her wand absently. "I'm not certain your body is ready for that."

"I trust your expertise, Ms. Granger," he replied.

With a flick of her wand, Severus was levitating in the air towards his bed. As he drifted past her towards his bed, he drank in the scent of clean linens and floral perfume, an intoxicating combination that reminded him of comfort. As he was laid down into bed, he eased himself beneath the covers, pulling the sheet over his lap.

"Can I get you anything else?" Hermione asked, smoothing her hand over the soft blanket.

With a gruff grunt and a shake of his head, Severus reached for the tray of food. He wished for solitude for the time-being to gather his thoughts, and with her constant interrogation, he knew that was something he would never receive. With a gentle squeeze of his thigh, she turned and left.

Bringing the fork to his mouth, Severus chewed absently at a piece of dry hotcake. He did not have much of an appetite at the moment, and after a long and laborious mastication, he pushed the tray aside once more, instead drawing the mug of black coffee into his hands and sipping from its cool contents. Soon, a journal found its place in his lap, and his eyes glossed over the words.

Heaving a deep breath, Severus lowered the magazine he had no interest in reading. The pages rustled as a breeze carried through the window, the aroma of foliage never growing old as Severus drank in the fresh air. Dragging his hand across his chin, fingers smoothing over the roughness of his beard, Severus stared out the window.

He was finally beginning to understand why he was so drawn to Hermione. The usual excuse would, in all likelihood, always apply; but it certainly seemed feasible to admit there was more to his attraction to her. Her voice, her temper, her warmth, her loyalty – it was all painfully familiar. It was not a coincidence that Lily was preoccupying much of his mind in recent days, much more than what was normal. He was slowly coming to accept that.

Hermione Granger was certainly not dissimilar to Lily Potter. It was no mystery why Lily's son had taken to the clever witch as he had; Dumbledore had mentioned it in the past, though Severus disregarded the bold comparison. Then, Severus would never accept there was ever another woman who could be so kind, so caring, so loving, so dedicated, as Lily Evans. Then, Severus refused to acknowledge the possibility of another woman claiming his heart.

What are you talking about, Severus? You have no heart.

With an incredulous scoff, Severus laughed. An icy laugh, of course, because the thought that he was caring for Hermione was absurd; there was no emotional attachment to the woman. His was hardly an emotional investment; he was simply lusting for her. She had developed into quite an attractive woman, even the alluring scent of her body – pheromones – had drawn him in.

You are obviously in denial, Severus.

His eyes narrowed dangerously as he stared out the window, his fingers curling knots into the blanket. He could not ignore the way his heart seemed to swell in her presence, nor the inarguable tug at his cheeks whenever she entered his room. There were fleeting moments when he wished to divulge all she sought to know, despite the dangers it would pose to her well-being.

Then, of course, the unacceptable instances of weakness when he wished for nothing more than to draw her into his arms. The yearning to taste her on his lips, to feel her breasts pressed into his chest, the warmth of her body against his. The comfort that swelled within him when she laced her fingers in his was overwhelming; if he were to claim her…

Despite his asinine sarcasm, despite his icy demeanor, despite their history – and he had been very unkind to her, after all – she was constantly willing to forgive and forget. She was willing to start fresh as though nothing had transpired between them.

Foolish.

With a sneer, Severus returned the tray of food to his lap, absently picking through the bland meal.

That evening, after most of St. Mungo's employees had vacated the hospital, Hermione wandered down to the history department. With a quiet "Alohamora" the door unlocked, and Hermione swung it open gently on its creaky, aging hinges. As she stepped foot within the enormous hall, it grew to life with candlelight flickering into existence, soft yellows and oranges filling the room.

Quietly, Hermione closed the door. Each time she entered the department she was forced to, first, simply gaze in awe at its pure size. She had no doubt the record of every wizard and witch who had ever been admitted to the hospital was carefully kept there. Breathing a steadying sigh, she gathered her nerve.

"Accio Severus Snape file," she whispered, her wand brandished in the direction of the towering shelving units.

As she waited in the entrance hall of the history department, the sound of flapping wings echoed against the walls. The louder the sound grew, the closer the file approached, until it landed in her hands. Staring at the folder, a wave of nausea swept over her. The record was hospital property and if it were ever discovered she tampered with it – or destroyed it, as she intended – the consequences were grave. And yet, she knew to ensure the safety of her patient, it was a necessary evil. What were the odds that anyone would search for a file of a man long deceased?

Tucking the file under her arm, Hermione turned to leave the department. A shuddering breath escaped her as she turned the doorknob, her anxiety rising every minute she was in possession of the record she intended to destroy. Over and over in her head she told herself it was the right thing to do, but she could not help her hesitancy. It seemed the sheer weight of her feeling of guilt glued her soles to the ground; her feet did not yield easily to her request for movement. An eternity likely could have passed before she had reached the floor of her office. If she were to be caught…

You cannot worry about that, Hermione. This is for Severus – he has trusted you, and you need to prove you are worthy of such trust.

When she finally returned to her office, Hermione closed the door behind her, locking it with an imperturbable security charm. She never understood the purpose of standard locks when a simple swish of a wand could align the wards; sometimes, the wizarding world was senseless. Hermione, for one, never utilized standard locks for security – not when first year students were taught the Unlocking Charm.

Lowering into her chair, she stared at the plain cover of the patient file, the multicolored tags decorating the edge to assist with rapid filing. Her hands were trembling, the gentle shiver rustling the papers within the folder.

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

"Incendio," Hermione whispered, her wand leveled at the hearth.

In a quiet crackle, the grate came to life with a small flame. Hermione's amber eyes danced between the file in her hands and the yellow flames, her heart pounding within her chest until it was all she could hear. The blaze grew until it licked at the brick surrounding it, the warmth glowing like a halo.

With a deep, steadying breath, Hermione flicked her wrist towards the fire; the folder abandoned her hands, drifting into the flames and finally settling against the grate. Its corners charred black nearly immediately, curling into themselves before disintegrating into ash. As the file burned, Hermione's heart seemed to show no intention on slowing; the pressure behind her breastbone was pressing downwards against her stomach, stirring a sense of nausea.

In a few minutes, the file had all but turned to ash. The last article to burn was the photograph itself, an ominous set of fathomless ebony eyes glaring at her through the flames as the film melted from the borders inward. Soon, it, too, vanished into charcoal-colored dust, and Hermione released a long, relieved sigh.

When Hermione arrived home that evening following a long, slow walk through the thick night air, Crookshanks was immediately circling her feet, mewling his affection. He pushed his head into her calf, the loud growl of contented purring vibrating against her flesh. The happy greeting brought a smile to her face and she kneeled down to the friendly feline.

"Good evening to you, too, Crookshanks," Hermione crooned, her fingertips scratching along his throat. "I've missed you too."

Great golden eyes peered up at her expectantly, and as Hermione turned her attention to his plate in the kitchen, she released a soft laugh. "Oh, I see. You're only happy to see me because you know I'll feed you."

Crookshanks leapt from his place at her feet and padded gracefully to the kitchen, where Hermione followed suit. After she poured him some food and a tiny cup of milk, she moved into her bedroom. Every day that passed, the scent of Ron seemed to dissipate; Hermione had taken to leaving her windows open to hurry the process along. The ache that lingered in her chest seemed to press deeper whenever she returned home, but it seemed as though tonight, it was somehow dulled.

At least until she pushed open the door to find Ron reclining on her bed, his hands folded behind his head and his eyes closed peacefully. Hermione nearly flinched at his presence there; the first thought that flickered through her mind was how she had gone to such lengths to eradicate any evidence he had ever lived there in the first place. With a sigh, she took another soft step into the room, her arms folding across her chest.

"Ron? What are you doing here?"

Her voice startled him from his doze; with a jerk, he sprung to his feet. Smoothing his hands over his face, wiping the sleep away, he turned his glossy eyes on Hermione. As she watched him, there was an air of uncertainty, as though he wasn't sure what he should do. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he began to rock on the balls of his feet.

"I came to get my stuff… but I wanted to talk to you, first." His voice was obviously pained, cracking on random syllables.

"Ron…" Hermione sighed, backing away from him as he began advancing toward her.

"Hermione, just listen. Please." Ron's hands reached for her as he pleaded, seeking the warmth of her body; as Hermione shot a warning glance to his wandering hands, they seemed to freeze in the air.

Ron took a step back, his hands buried deep into his pockets once more. Allowing her eyes to flicker closed for just a moment, Hermione breathed in deeply through her nostrils to steady her nerves. The moment's end fast approached, and as she opened her amber eyes, she nodded slowly.

"Let me fix some tea," Hermione bargained, thinking for certain chamomile was in order if her frayed nerves had any decision in tea selection.

Leading Ron into the small kitchen, Hermione immediately busied her hands by gathering the teacups and the kettle. From behind her, she heard the screech of the chair feet against the old tile floor as Ron pulled the chair back to take a seat. Risking a glance over her shoulder, she noticed he took the seat he had normally preoccupied for their meals; his ears were flaming red, his eyes downcast at the smooth surface of the dining table. His elbows rested against the cool wood, his hands twisting his wand nervously.

Hermione returned her attention to the kettle, setting it over the burning coil on the stove. Despite the fact magic could have been used, Hermione preferred the "Muggle" way to brew tea – and various other tasks, as well. Making coffee, cleaning dishes, laundering clothes; there was a certain quaintness and a comfortable familiarity with doing some things by hand (or at least the way she had been raised).

With a gruff cough, Ron cleared his throat. "That patient, the one you worked the weekend for… how is he doing?" His voice was cautious and it was obvious he was only trying to ease the tension that weighed down on their shoulders.

"He's improving," Hermione replied simply, casting a glance over her shoulder.

"That's good."

With a thoughtful hum, Hermione nodded her agreement and returned to the stove where she was finally able to busy her hands as the water boiled. Reaching for the teapot, she opened the kitchen faucet and let the water run until clouds of steam were lifting to the ceiling – she preferred warming her teapot so her tea wouldn't cool as quickly.

She could feel Ron's eyes on her back as she worked quietly, scooping tea into the teapot. His watchful gaze pinked her cheeks, but still she worked, pouring the boiling water into the pot and waiting quietly for the tea to steep. She turned her back to the counter, curling her fingers around the edge and staring at Ron. Casting a quick glance to the clock mounted on the wall behind him, Hermione sighed softly; it was going to be a very long night.

"So… is he still there?" Ron asked awkwardly.

Turning her attention back to Ron, Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion at his question before she realized he was still referring to Severus. "Oh – yes, of course. I said he was improving, I didn't say—"

"Right, right."

The uncomfortable silence settled in on them again and Hermione turned with a relieved sigh, appreciative of being able to busy her hands once more. Pouring the tea through her infuser, Hermione watched the pale amber liquid swim in the basin of the teacup, tiny grains of tea slipping through the filter. Handing Ron one of the cups, she curled her hands around the warm ceramic of her own and lowered into the chair across from him.

"Hermione, I… I miss you," Ron began, staring at the reflective surface of his tea. "I just… I want to make sure this is what you really want. I want you to be happy, but I… I hate being without you."

Hermione's chest rose in a heavy sigh. "Ron…"

"I know I've been difficult. It isn't fair to you." Finally, he raised his eyes to meet hers. "I just – with Fred gone…"

"Ron, it's been six years," Hermione interrupted, coldly. She set the teacup on the table gently. "Six years, I've been waiting for you to recover from your grief and be the man I fell in love with.Six years, Ronald! I'm not going to wait for you any longer. I can't wait for you."

"'Mione—Hermione, I know. It's just… I don't know what to do!" With his exasperation, Ron threw his hands in the air.

"I've told you; find a psychologist and talk to them. They can help you, you know! I don't understand your aversion to talking with someone—" Hermione slammed her fist onto the table in frustration, the cup rattling against the solid table surface. "But I can't wait for you anymore, Ronald. I need to be happy."

"Promise me, Hermione. Promise me something, will you?" He didn't give her the opportunity to respond. "If—when I get better… give me another chance."

Hermione hugged her arms to her chest, leaning back against the chair. With her fierce eyes piercing Ron's, she considered him for only a moment before deciding her answer.

"No."

Ron nearly leapt to his feet, coming around the table and dropping painfully to his knees before Hermione. He grasped tightly at her hands, lacing his fingers between hers and holding her tightly. Glossy, reddened eyes stared up at her and his grip on her hands began to tighten as his hands started to tremble.

"Please, Hermione."

"Ronald, stop this nonsense," Hermione tried to shake her hands free of his grip, but he was unmoving. "I need to do what will make me happiest, Ronald. I can't live my life for anyone else – I can't wait for you anymore."

Leaning forward, Ron captured Hermione's lips in his, his flaming cheeks wet with tears. Hermione froze for a moment, her eyes widened as she stared into the closed eyes of Ron; she had to consciously resist the urge to return his kiss. Old habits die hard – his kiss was as passionate as they used to be, and her heart fluttered under his touch. She missed the man he used to be, and his contact then held some memory of the man she had loved so dearly.

Her logical mind pressed forward and she pulled away. "Ronald Bilius Weasley, I said stop! I cannot wait for you any longer. It is over between us and I'm sorry if you can't accept that. If you can't accept it, then I have to ask you to leave."

Ron fell back on his heels, staring in disbelief at the woman he loved. She had risen from her chair, taking a step back away from him and her wand already held before her. With a small shake of his head, he lowered his gaze to his knees. In an ungraceful movement, he lowered himself from his heels to his arse, his legs bent upwards and his arms resting against his knees. Tears ran silent tracks down his erubescent cheeks, his hands trembling violently as he sat a crumpled heap on the floor.

"Please. Collect your things and leave. I need to get to sleep." Despite her icy voice, her heart seemed to crush against itself within her chest. She hoped her voice did not tremble as she spoke, but the rising tension in her throat was painful as she forced steady sentences.

"Right," Ron sighed, finally climbing to his feet. "I won't take long."

The sun was beating down on their faces; Severus could feel a tiny bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck, and despite the cooler breeze that brushed against his face, he was still damp in the summer heat. Dried blood stained his right knee and there was dirt beneath his fingertips, the pleasant, joyous laugh of a young girl ringing through the thick, humid air.

"Sev – Sev, let's jump!"

Severus curled his legs beneath him, the force of gravity and his own weight forcing him backwards along the swing. As Lily passed him, moving quickly in the opposite direction, the burst of air that cooled his skin smelled sweet like a child's sweat. Her braids trailed behind her, her cheeks smudged with dirt from a long day spent at the playground. There was a look of determination on her face, her brow furrowed beneath the fringe of her thick red hair.

"You better be careful, Lily!" Severus warned, a small laugh joining her delighted giggle as she soared past him. "I can't mend bones yet!"

Lily's fingers began loosening around the chains, her legs outstretched as she began to pull herself from the seat of the swing. A moment later, she was soaring through the air, her arms outstretched as though she was trying to take flight. As he swung back and forth, he watched her; when she landed, she rolled across the ground dramatically, leaping to her feet with her fists pressed triumphantly against her hips.

"Beat that, Sev!"

With a small smile – and a carefully planned release – Severus' fingers abandoned the chain. His bottom slid gracefully from the seat of the swing, his feet only a few feet from the ground as he sailed through the air. He could hear Lily laughing – she seemed to always be laughing – and when finally his feet touched the earth, she cried out in victory. Dropping to his knees, burying his fingers into the sand, Severus tipped his head back to look at her.

"Looks like you win again, Lily," he conceded with a hidden smile.

Dragging his hand over his face, Severus groaned. The red haze of his eyelids was an unwelcome alarm; as he drew closer to consciousness, the sound of cars traveling the streets invaded his senses. A quiet laugh sounded near him, and as Severus opened his eyes, his gaze settled on Hermione.

"It's about time you're awake," she said with a smirk, a sidelong glance casted towards him as she mixed his morning potions.

"What time is it?" Severus growled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"About nine-thirty," Hermione replied, handing him the cool goblet.

With an annoyed glare focused on her face, Severus begrudgingly took the goblet from her and tossed his head back. "How long were you waiting there?"

"I had barely just stepped in," Hermione replied, taking the goblet from his hand. "You don't honestly believe I have the time to watch you sleep?"

"As I recall, Ms. Granger, you are quite adept with a Time Turner," Severus replied, crassly.

With a thoughtful smile, Hermione turned from him to set the goblet down on the cabinet. Slowly, the smile began to tug downwards, and she released a sigh.

Severus, ever keen on his Healers fluctuating moods, lifted an eyebrow as he watched her. Against his better interests – it seemed everything he did when in the presence of Hermione violated his personal set of social rules – he queried her. "What troubles you, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione pulled on a pair of gloves, curling her fingers as she loosened the pressure around her knuckles. Moving towards her patient, she simply stared at him for a moment, her amber eyes roaming his features. Raising her right arm, she began rolling the limb at its socket, guiding Severus in a similar movement.

Her voice was soft as she spoke, as though the topic was a delicate one. "Ron visited last night."

"I see," Severus growled, flexing his arm and lengthening the ropy muscles that tied themselves to his bones.

"I had just returned home after… taking care of your file," she sighed. "Ron was waiting in my bedroom. He wanted to talk."

"And this came as a surprise to you, Ms. Granger? Honestly, I thought you were cleverer than that." Flexing his fingers, the satisfying pop! of his knuckles seemed to emphasize his point.

Hermione shook her head. "It didn't… but the timing… the timing was not the best for me."

"Rarely does life cooperate with our personal schedules, Ms. Granger. You should not be so naïve." Severus growled.

When they had finished with his arms, Hermione guided him in similar movements of his lower limbs, long legs bending at every joint and lengthening the sinewy muscles lurking beneath the skin. Quiet groans came from his throat as the stretched muscle relieved an entire night's tension, the pleasure comparable to anything he himself could elicit.

When both of his legs were resting comfortably beneath the blankets once more, Severus curled his toes. Inexplicably, a strange surge of jealousy tied itself around his gut at the thought of Weasley. Despite his better instincts – which warned him to stay away from inserting himself into the personal lives of others – he heard himself ask, "May I ask what was discussed?"

"Nothing that would surprise you," Hermione replied with a gentle shrug, coming to the foot of his bed. "He… wanted to make sure this is what I wanted. He told me he only wanted me to be happy."

With gloved hands, she pressed her fingers into the weary muscles of his feet, rubbing small circles around the fleshy pads. At first, Severus' foot jerked from her – and he noticed her lips part in a pretty smile as she realized he was ticklish – but as she increased her force, he released a quiet, pleasured groan.

"I am also aware that confrontations such as these end in one of two ways," he managed between pleased sighs.

As Hermione turned her attention to his other foot, she shook her head. "You are partially right. He kissed me – and, you know, it was rather odd, because he… he was passionate. Like he used to be." Her cheeks were stained red as she spoke of their intimacy, and for a brief moment Severus savored her embarrassment. In the next second he was simply cherishing her confidence in him; she trusted him and it was a sadly foreign feeling for him.

She added, "I didn't allow it to go any further. I couldn't. It would only… it would only lead to more pain."

"That is very considerate of you, Ms. Granger. Oh!" Hermione had discovered a particularly sensitive knot of fatigued muscle in his foot, and as her thumb worked it loose, Severus exclaimed in pleasure.

Hermione's lips parted in a satisfied smile and she finally pulled her hands away from his feet. Rounding to the head of his bed once more, she loosened the ties around his throat, revealing the pale skin of his chest. He, once the pleasure of her touch faded, returned his thoughts to their conversation; the swell of his chest when he heard she rejected Weasley's advances did not go ignored.

Hermione's tender touch smoothed over the surface of his flesh, her fingers gingerly manipulating the slow-healing wounds – examining the edges and ensuring the stitches remained in place. "He asked me to promise him something." Her voice was soft, nearly a whisper, her eyes never meeting his gaze as they scanned his pale flesh and weakly glowing wounds.

Severus, whose attention had been focused on her touch (of course, preparing himself for the sudden ache she would cause as she fingered his injuries), directed his gaze to her face. Her cheeks were pinked just slightly, and he knew she was not entirely certain if she should be confiding in him such private details.

And yet, she continued. "He asked that I give him another chance—when he gets better."

Severus' breathing halted at her words and he did not resist when she moved to fasten his gown around his neck once more. If she thought his behavior at all strange, she made no indication. In fact, as Severus stared at her face, the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears, she seemed only melancholy, a sadness in her eyes that seemed unfathomable. Her hands were still smoothing over the fabric of his gown, flattening out the creases that had folded themselves into the weave.

"I do not suppose you are one to put your life on pause for such foolish pursuits, Ms. Granger," Severus finally managed, once his lungs decided to inhale once more. "If you are, then… a pity, indeed."

Hermione's gaze turned to him, the melancholy all but replaced by a growing warmth. "Of course not. I told him I could not wait for him any longer. It was time I lived my life for me."

"Apparently, you are as receptive as always, Ms. Granger," Severus growled, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. A certain joy began to expand within his chest, but he, of course, would never let it show.

"I would hate to disappoint you, Professor," Hermione crooned gently, a smile parting her lips prettily. He noticed the subtlest of bounces as she stood before him, and he thought for certain she would burst from whatever it was she was trying to contain. "And I have good news."

"Yes?"

"I think you're ready to start walking."

Severus' forehead creased as he bristled at the news, his eyebrows rising and his shoulders broadening. Hermione couldn't contain her smile anymore; she knew he had been eager for this moment since the day he was admitted, and to be able to assist him in such an amazing step – she was almost as elated as he.

"Would you like to try?" she asked, backing away from the bed just far enough to allow him room to swing his legs over the edge. With her wand raised, the bed lowered closer to the floor.

"Yes."

With her dominant hand supporting his shoulder, Hermione assisted Severus to an independently seated position, without the support of the pillows along his back to lean against. As he sat in front of her, she slid her fingers beneath his robe, searching for the wounds that had been of concern to this very moment. His dark gaze focused on her face, but she was not looking at him. Her eyes were fixated on something beyond his shoulder, though he suspected she wasn't actually looking at anything at all; rather just staring, her entire attention focused on her sense of touch as she tactilely examined his healing wounds. Her scent perfumed the air between them, a pleasant combination of floral shampoo and a scent he knew was simply her, and as he drank it in, he couldn't help the natural response of his body. He did not swell at the scent, but there existed a dull throb within him; an aching that he knew was not purely lustful.

When she finally finished frantically fingering his wounds, her eyes seemed to glow with life again. Flickering her gaze to his face, she seemed to suddenly realize the proximity of their bodies – Severus could count the individual freckles that danced along the bridge of her nose, and he noticed the flecks of emerald in the irises of her eyes – and a faint flush rose in her cheeks as she offered him a kind smile before backing away.

"I just wanted to ensure the wounds were not pulling at the stitches. You're fine," she offered, an awkward intonation in her voice that Severus could not identify. "How do you feel?"

"Fine," Severus growled.

Despite his declaration, she seemed intent on keeping him perched there for several moments longer. With her hands on either shoulder, her amber eyes searched his face as though she were prepared for the moment he would lose consciousness. Her wild mane of hair was tied back at the nape of her neck, but as his gaze oscillated over her features, stray tendrils began escaping their confines and dangling prettily around her face. The flush that had colored her face previously had all but faded now; Severus wished he could say the same, but his body still yearned to feel the female before him.

As the silent moment ended, Hermione took a small step backwards, releasing her firm grip on his shoulders. He rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension that was tightening within them. The furrowing of her brow and the gravity of the situation came settling in on him, and finally, the ache that swelled within him subsided.

"If you feel at all light-headed or otherwise unwell, tell me," Hermione said firmly, the emphasis she placed on the final two words ringing in his ears.

He eased closer to the edge of the bed, the cool tile floor chilling the warm pads of his feet. He wiggled his toes against the smooth surface. Hermione had moved back away from him to give him room, but as soon as he leaned forward to gain the momentum to stand, she closed in on him, lacing her arm behind his back and resting the other on his waist.

Together, they hoisted him to his feet. In his height, Hermione's support nearly faded from him; he was at least a foot taller than she was, and her arm, which had lifted from his underarms, now lay across the middle of his back rather uselessly. Her eyes were still fixated on his face and she seemed not to care about the disparity in their heights or the seeming futility of her arm draped across his back; her only concern was his reaction to the sudden change in position, but given her calm expression, he seemed to be handling it well.

Together, they took a single step forward. Severus' gait was very unsteady and he was suddenly very appreciative of the small woman at his side. With her left hand pressed against his waist and her right arm tied around his back, she was indeed offering him strength in his stance.

Another step.

And then another.

Together, they finally arrived at the foot of the bed. Severus was filled with a combination of emotions, but the dominating feeling that burned through him in that moment was frustration. He was not a meek man who needed a cane to support him as he swept through a corridor; his mere gait was intimidating, and those with any sense cowered before him.

But in that moment, he was an incredibly frail man with pallid, waifish legs protruding from a thin patient's robe that only hung to his knees. Hermione was thoughtful enough to ensure his rear was concealed as they walked, her hand dragging the gown over to cover him. He was weak, meek; a woman twenty years his junior having to support him as he practiced walking.

"How are you doing, Sev?" Hermione asked softly from below his arm.

"Fine." His response was a snarl, and the moment it escaped him he regretted the tone. Hermione did not seem swayed by it, however, as though she understood his anger.

"Would you like to try on your own?" There was an uncertainty in her voice as though she was unsure it was the wisest decision to make; but regardless, she was going to give him the option.

"Yes."

Nodding, Hermione carefully removed herself from his side, her diligent gaze fixed on his face. Severus held himself up for a moment by the bed, his legs – weakened in their lack of use, but still strong enough to support his weight – shaking just slightly as they were suddenly responsible for the entirety of his mass.

It was obviously requiring a great amount of restraint on Hermione's behalf to allow him this small token of independence. She was barely separate from him, her hands ready to catch him if he became unsteady; all the while never actually assisting him, and allowing him the opportunity to walk on his own.

Taking a step forward, Severus moved away from the bed. Hermione moved in front of him, her steps moving her backward the door, her hands poised to break his fall if he happened to lose his gait. Another trembling, unsteady step forward; Hermione took a firm, steady step back. As though they were dancing, their movements were timed and synchronous, and Hermione's serious stare and fervent defensive stance reminded Severus that this was, indeed, a serious task.

In attempts to ease the weight of the room – or simply distract them both from his pathetic weakness – Severus cleared his throat. "I believe, with time, you will find that you are better off without him."

Hermione released a soft laugh, her eyebrows raised in an incredulous expression. "There you are again with your apparent omniscience." They were closing in on the door when Hermione began to lead him back toward the bed gradually.

"Girl—you are not so—foolish as to be—unable to see precisely—the result of your decision…" Walking – and talking – required so much of his energy, much more than he thought reasonable, and his chest began to heave with gasps for air.

A wrinkle pressed itself into Hermione's forehead as she registered his exhaustion, and she extended a hand to his shoulder. "Severus, you ought to know better than most when to hold your tongue," she growled, and despite the severity of the situation, her bold audacity to mock him was not lost on him – though for the moment, while he gasped for shallow breaths of air, he would allow it to pass without consequence.

"And—ugh—" What happened next seemed to move under the influence of a slowing charm. His gait was already shaky at best, and his foot seemed to catch on nothing, turning him off his balance. He began to fall forward, a quiet grunt escaping him as he tripped; Hermione's voice cried out in surprise and he felt her body press into his, her arms wrap around his waist, trying to stop his fall. She had underestimated his weight, he expected, as she began to crumble beneath him.

He expected the impact to be painful, and guilt flashed through his mind as he realized Hermione would be crushed beneath him. She shrieked something – a spell he should have known, but the incantation was slurred in his mind – and as they finally hit the ground, he felt Hermione sink into it below him as though they were on a bed of feathers. He passed through it too as though he were weightless, a jerky movement, not unlike a mattress or trampoline, recoiling him back to where the surface of the ground should have been.

A small sound escaped the woman beneath him as she breathed a relieved sigh. Severus' face was buried in her hair, the knot at the nape having come completely loose in the struggle, forming a nest of floral fragrance and soft curls at the crook of her neck and cascading over her shoulders. The rough growth along his chin brushed against the smooth flesh of her throat. Her arms were still around his waist, and as he began to shift above her, he registered the feeling of her thighs flanking his hips.

Weakly, he lifted himself onto his elbows, and as his gaze met hers, he realized she was directly below him, her face so close he could feel her ragged breaths on his skin. She moved her legs just slightly, and through his thin patient gown – and her thicker, but not very, Healer's robe – he could feel the heat emanating from her body. The familiar ache began throbbing below his navel; her ragged breaths became raspy, her face flushing as she looked at him. Her hands smoothed from the middle of his back to his hips, her thumbs hooking around the bony prominence of his iliac crests.

For a moment, they lay there on the ground, their frantic, raspy breaths escaping their parted lips and brushing against their partner's face. Her amber eyes were wide with surprise, but there was something within them that burned bright like flame. Severus' body pleaded to close the small gap that separated them, to press his lips to hers and ravenously invade her mouth – he could feel the racing heart in the body below him, pounding against the thin wall of her chest as though it sought to escape. Its pace nearly challenged his own, but he doubted anything could beat as fast as his heart was in that moment.

A rush of impulse flooded his vision and he couldn't seem to control the movement of his face toward hers. Quickly, the space between them was closed and he felt his lips brush hers, the taste of her lips salty in a luxurious, tantalizing way. He could have sworn he felt her lips suck his in, but within a moment, her hands began pressing against him, her body writhing away, a quiet sound – he couldn't decipher its meaning – escaping her. He felt her push him back, the loathsome feeling of rejection sinking into his chest. As his eyes held her gaze, the fire burning there remained, but it was dying.

"Are you… are you hurt?" she asked, her voice breathy and tainted. Had she been any other woman, he'd have thought the low growl that accompanied her words was lustful – but her recent rejection shook the thought from his mind.

"No."

He was hesitant to move from his place above her; there was heat radiating off her body, more concentrated where he rested between her legs, and the hardened length that made itself known to her through its quivering pressure there was only encouraged by what he knew to exist beneath the awful lime-green robes. She sensed it – he knew she had to – and her erubescent face only flushed more as it throbbed against her.

"Are you able to sit up? I can help you into your bed, of course, but…"

With a low groan, Severus managed to lift himself high enough that Hermione could slide out from beneath him. As soon as she was on her feet, she lowered to her knees to assist Severus to stand as well. He was surprised he wasn't sorer; there was only a dull ache in his joints – and the desperate throb below his navel that he wished would dissipate. His concern was not that Hermione would bear witness to it – she would have been incredibly naïve and rather imperceptive if she hadn't noticed it earlier – but the fact that his body was reacting to her at all.

Anchoring herself to his side once more, her arm draped across his back, she guided him to the bed. Severus wasn't sure her face could glow any redder than it was as she perched beside him, her eyes busily staring at anything but the awkward tent of his gown. Even Severus was overcome with a familiar sense of shame and despite knowing that he was simply responding to the presence of a female – he certainly wasn't responding to Hermione, specifically; no, that was impossible – it was still an embarrassing situation for either to endure. He was her former professor, for Merlin's sake.

But she kissed you back, Severus.

When they reached the bed, he lowered himself onto it gently, Hermione's hands grasping his shoulders and holding him steady. There were tiny beads of sweat across her forehead, her cheeks still stained as she stood over him; the smell of her sweat was not unpleasant, Severus noticed. She was not far from him, though to gesture towards her, to taste again the lips his body so craved – it would be a noticed motion, and surely she would recoil. The sting of rejection was still fresh and his logic, restraint, and abstinence an overpowering force to reckon with.

"Are you certain you're not hurt, Sev?" Hermione asked, the flush of her cheeks finally fading. She dared a glance to his lap and did not conceal well the look of relief that flashed across her features.

"Yes," he growled.

Hermione helped lift his legs into the bed as Severus leaned back into the pillows. She drew the covers over his legs, and as though she regained the mentality of a Healer, her hands began fussing over him, examining the wounds that remained and checking his vitals. When all seemed well, she excused herself, abandoning Severus to the lonesome silence of his isolation room.

As Hermione quietly pulled the door closed behind her, she found the support it offered calming. Leaning her weight against the cool surface, spreading her fingers over its smoothness, she breathed a heavy sigh, willing her heart to finally slow its beating.

Her mind was whirling; no tangible thought existed at that moment, and she hated to admit just how much it required to utter a single intelligible word – let alone form full sentences! Tipping her head forward, she stared at the toes of her shoes.

The way her body responded to him was unacceptable and completely inappropriate. Shifting her legs, she could feel the dampness of her knickers, and she shook her head in disdain. She swore she felt him swell when he was above her and with her legs surrounding him – the thin fabric of their robes left little to the imagination – she was able to feel the hard length of him, pressed against her.

Swallowing hard, Hermione allowed her eyes to flicker closed. She brought her fingers to her lips; she could still remember the feeling, however fleeting, of his lips brushing hers. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to devour him in a single movement, his lips parting for her and her tongue caressing his. She could smell his breath, and it wasn't unpleasant; the smell inspired a rush inside her, the strongest urge to taste him, to explore his mouth with her tongue and tear open his gown and…

It took every ounce of restraint she contained to keep from rocking her hips into him, the feeling of his solid length pressed into her core. Her primal desires – those that had been so neglected in recent months – began taking over and she wanted, so badly, to feel him inside of her. The pure strength of his body, and despite how frail he still was – even as he was healing and recovering his vitality – she knew his body was capable of such vigor, such stamina. He felt powerful above her, and for the briefest of moments, she wanted to succumb to him.

But he was her patient. Ethical guidelines were developed specifically to prohibit such behaviors; it was only a matter of time before a relationship between a Healer and her patient would end in catastrophe. Conflicted interests aside, to fall for a patient would lead to the neglect of others and absurd treatments and risks taken despite the repercussions – she had already violated a plethora of restrictions simply because he was Severus Snape.

Severus Snape. As though she had completely forgotten who the patient in the room behind her was, the name rang through her mind like a siren. Severus Snape. Her body was reacting to Severus Snape, the former Potions professor at Hogwarts. Severus Snape, the man who had devoted his entire life to protecting the legacy of a woman he had loved for nearly all of his life. Severus Snape, a man who was a former Death Eater, and though he renounced his ways for the greater good – and Hermione knew everyone made mistakes, and she did not believe they should have to pay for them for their entire lives – who knew what atrocities he committed the brief time he was Voldemort's loyal servant? What of the time he spent as a double agent; what sort of crimes was he forced to participate in to maintain his cover? Who knew what barbarity he was capable of?

Her body continued responding to the thought of the man behind the door; her core ached to contain him. Even as she tried to even her breathing and utilize logic and reason to combat the overwhelming desire to pounce on the man – the betrayal between her legs only grew warmer and wetter as her thoughts persisted. It did not matter in what context she thought of him – as her patient, as her professor, as a Death Eater – her lust for him only intensified.

Severus stared woefully at the wall. The sense of rejection had not left him; the crushing feeling around his heart when Hermione had pushed against him still seemed to compress the walls of his chest until he could hear the rhythm of his own pulse in his ears. Never mind the humiliation of tripping over nothing to fall on top of her in the first place – as though Fate had not enjoyed herself enough in recent days.

And yet, the fleeting feeling of her lips brushing his… Severus fisted a handful of fabric, his grip tightening until the flesh of his knuckles were as white as the bone beneath. A moment of weakness had caused him to disregard rationality. What would he say to her when she returned? What would she say? Perhaps she didn't even notice, and she never actually pushed him away, she was simply trying to slide out from beneath him to assist him to his own feet, and she did return his kiss after all—

Listen to yourself, you fool. She has no interest in a cynical, sarcastic, withered, old man like you.

His hands came to his face, rough palms smoothing over the deep crevices of his forehead as he breathed a frustrated sigh. His fingers slid over the sharp corners of his cheekbones and finally came to rest against his lips; he could still feel her warm mouth pressed against his, the gentle pressure he knew existed solely because for a fleeting moment, she wished to succumb to herown urges.

His callused finger traced the roughness of his chapped lip for a moment longer; the scent of her breath still haunted his sense of smell. Briefly, his mind betrayed him and his thoughts lingered on the possibility of the taste of her mouth – did her tongue taste the same as her lips? His own tongue darted out against his lip, drawing in the imaginary remnant of her taste. Finally, his hands returned to their limp position in his bed. Staring loathingly at the stark white sheet, he released a heavy sigh.

You are growing attached to her, Severus.

Against his better interest – against her better interests. It was not a question; it was only common sense. Should she ever become a weakness for him, she would become a target for his enemies. Severus' brow wrinkled as he scowled. To be in love was not worth the risk; happiness was not worth the cost of pain and misery that surely would follow.

You imbecile. You speak of love and happiness as though it is a possibility for you.

Pensively, he chewed his lip – and immediately caught himself mimicking the habit he found so endearing in her. He had only been in her presence for a short time and yet he adopted a habit of hers.

How endearing.

It was only one more piece of evidence that it was imperative to separate himself from her as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He was well enough to walk, after all – he could demand to be discharged. Lifting his gaze to the window, he watched the shapeless clouds lazily drift through the pale blue sky.

This will only end in death, you fool. If not your own, hers. And for some reason which he could not decipher, the thought of Hermione coming into harm's way inspired a certain nausea within him.
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Potions, Plans, and Second Chances