Far Too Late For Visitors

A/N: Wotcha all, I hope you are well and thanks for reading my fic =) I'm hoping to limit this to only 3 chapters because I'd like to keep it snappy and am still working hard on my first fic, All Wounds, which is coming together and will be posted soon fear not all of you lovely people who want to see what happens. It is not a dead fic! This one just got into my head and had to come out.

I put the 'violence' tag for some kinda gory descriptions in this chapter but there might be some fighting, if I can get the courage to give it a try.

Anyway blah blah on to the story, which I hope you enjoy and please please rate and/or review please I beseech you *grin* ~Love Marie.

Chapter One - I'm not really sure why you're at my door

It was so late in the day that it was actually becoming early. Rain fell from the sky in sheets, pouring down as it had been for hours, days. It clattered on the widow, on the roof, it ran along the gutters and gurgled down into the drains. Hermione sat curled in a large armchair by her fire, purposefully chosen because of its similarity to her favourite spot in her old common room. Her legs were pulled underneath her and she rested her chin in the palm of one hand, the other holding her book open on her lap while she read. The fire was crackling softly in the hearth and aside from this gentle noise and the occasional rustling of the scorched logs as they settled, the room was devoid of any sound but the persistent flowing of the rain.

A loud and heavy banging suddenly filled the quiet room, rattling down the dark hallway into the little warm room in which she sat. Crookshanks leapt out of his basket and disappeared in a streak of orange. Hermione had jumped violently at the sound, bringing her hand up to her heart as her head swung round the room, taking in the stillness, the undamaged window with heavy curtains drawn against the weather outside. She was uncertain at first exactly what it had been that had broken her deep concentration but then the loud rapping rang out again, and she nervously advanced towards her own front door, her socked feet shuffling on her polished floorboards. As she passed the clock in the hall her eyes flicked to its face, where the big hand was pointing to ‘Far Too Late For Visitors’. She patted her wand reassuringly one last time, and then pulled open the front door.

He was dressed all in black, as he always had been. The rain had drenched every inch of him, and continued to clatter all around non-stop, running like a waterfall from the edge of the porch roof above them. His wet hair clung to his face, his black robes hung heavily, and he leant his whole body against the brickwork next to him. His left arm was flush against the wall, and his right hand reached across his chest, clutching his left shoulder where he leant on it. She didn’t know quite what to say, but as she opened her mouth to speak, his own baritone voice interrupted her.

“I am sorry to bother you at such an hour, Miss Granger, but I would be much obliged if I might step inside a moment?” He said, and her eyebrows furrowed quickly in response, her mind working overtime. She hadn’t seen this man since her last day at Hogwarts and had certainly never heard him say ‘sorry’, yet here he was at gone three in the morning asking for entry to her isolated cottage as if he’d dropped by for tea. In the split second of her confusion, however, she saw two things which changed everything instantly.

She noticed that his teeth were grinding together, she could see the clenching of his jaw muscles. Then from the corner of her eye she saw the streak of scarlet run down the back of his left hand, hanging immobile at his side, and she saw the drop of blood fall in a sort of slow motion before it burst on the stone of her doorstep, breaking out into a vivid circle of red. He was hurt.

Her eyes flew to his face again, her mouth dropping open, her sense screaming out to let the man in front of her into her house but hesitating, horribly, if only for an indeterminable amount of time, the lessons learnt while growing up during a war screaming a beacon of caution even now in her active mind. Could she be sure that all was as it seemed? That he was what he seemed? She did not even have time to speak, however, before he spoke again, drawn and tightly and with a tired tone, but clear as a bell even over the continuous clattering of the rain behind him.

“The comment I once made about your teeth was unnecessary and spiteful,” he said, and then he toppled forward through the wards of her doorway as she released them, and she was catching him clumsily with one arm and the length of her body even as her other hand reached for her wand. She cast a levitation charm, the first which came to mind, and the sudden weight of his body was gone before it toppled her smaller frame, allowing her to quickly shuffle the both of them the few steps into the firelight of the sitting room and lie him down onto her couch.

He grimaced horribly as she gently laid back, his eyes screwing up and his teeth clenching like a vice as his shoulder lay against the edge of the seat, his right hand was still clutching at it and was white with the effort. Hermione lifted the top half of his body while the weightlessness still affected him, trying to be as gentle as she could possibly be but still drawing a low moan of pain from the dark man as she worked. She transfigured one of her scatter cushions into a large pillow and settled it behind him, leaning him back so that both his shoulders were squarely supported by it. His head was resting against the sofa arm which curved away behind him. He tilted his head back then and another moan issued from his taught throat.

“Siccus,” Hermione muttered, and the moisture evaporated from his clothes and body and formed into a small cloud above him, escaping with some steam and sputtering through the chimney. Now that he was dry, she turned to her armchair, casting it away from the fire with more force than she intended due to the fear and nervousness she felt from the situation she was now suddenly in the middle of. She performed the levitation spell again, this time on the large sofa, and it floated gently across the floor as if it were on casters, coming to rest in front of the fireplace and making the most of the warmth of the flames. In the same moment a bottle of whisky and a glass were accioed into her hands and she poured a good measure hastily, leaning down over to her charge and holding the glass forward to his lips.

“Here,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I’m sorry it’s not firewhisky, but it’s the best I can do.”

His right hand came up to steady the glass as he sipped from it, but she kept a loose grip on it herself as well. He gulped the liquid down in a second, it disappeared from the glass as if by magic, and his face screwed up at the taste. Then he gasped out,

“Another!”

She once again sloshed liquid out of the bottle into the glass, filling it even nearer to the brim than the last in her haste, and once more his right hand grabbed at the glass as he downed the burning measure. Following another grimace he closed his eyes and rested his head back against the arm of the sofa, so she assumed he did not require another drink quite yet. She looked down at the glass and saw the dark smear of blood left from his hand – red prints of his fingers clotting and dripping – much more blood than she would have thought, and the glass slipped from her own hand and shattered as she looked down at the wounded shoulder.

Despite her drying his shirt moments before, it was soaked again down his left side below his wound. Even on the black shirt, not showing any colour, she could see the sticky gleam of the sodden fabric as it clung to his skin beneath.

The white pillow beneath him had turned crimson almost before her eyes, the plume of red spreading out as it seeped through the cotton cover, more blood than could be absorbed by it rolling off the surface and dripping down onto the polished floorboards. The life was pouring out of the man and onto her floor, he was so pale that she thought for a moment she could see his deathly skull underneath his papery skin, and she felt the iron ball of fear and dread fall heavily into her stomach.


“Let me see.” She said with raw determination, leaning down and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt as she spoke. He did not say anything but moved his right arm aside slightly so that she could begin to undo a few buttons more, desperately trying to uncover the wound so she could see just was it was that was causing him to bleed so profusely. He had a heavy cloak on and the heavy woollen material was clustered at his sides, hindering his movement and hers. She made to move it away, but she remembered again her basic wizarding first aid, the second point being ‘wand awareness.’ It might be concealed in his clothing, protected by dangerous wards.

“Where’s your wand?” She asked quickly, leaning her ear close to his lips so she could hear his whispering.

“Gone.” Was his single, rough reply.

“Gone?” she repeated in surprise, turning to stare at his face.

“Gone,” he said again. “Taken.”

Despite her intense shock at the discovery of someone managing capture the wand of the former Death Eater and formidable potions master, the seriousness of the situation drew all of her attention. She safely removed his heavy cloak swiftly and further unbuttoned his shirt until she could pull it apart and see the extent of his injuries.

She had barely touched his shirt or body but the tacky congealing fluid was already covering her fingertips, the bright red vivid in the sharp light of the fire. She tried to see clearly where the main extent of the blood was coming from, but the whole of his chest was seeped in the stuff now, her stomach turned a little and she swallowed hard. She was not used to the sight of blood, and the last time she had seen pints like this they had been spouting from the neck of the very man before her, eight years ago. She swallowed again, captivated a moment by the sheer amount of red that was everywhere now, and then she shook herself violently and sent the universal distress call with her wand. The golden shadow of a large bird erupted from her wand and soared away into nothing, taking her Healer request to the ministry.

Even so, it would be a while before any help arrived. She was purposefully not on the floo network and she was a long way from any other wizarding houses or villages. She knew then, suddenly, that she was completely on her own, and that the Professor and war hero would die right then and there in her living room unless she did everything absolutely right.

She brightened the lights in the room and then cast a gentle scourgify on his shoulder, biting her lip in anticipation of the horrific injuries she would reveal, and then she was surprised. Far from being a tattered mess, his skin was smooth and untouched aside from a single cut just at the outer edge of his collar bone, about two inches in length. Even as she watched she saw a swell of blood ooze and then trickle from the wound, and she laid the tip of her wand into the cut and muttered first the general clotting and flow-stemming charm, and then an anaesthetising numbing spell which she knew would take a little of the pain away. She held her breath as she cast another scourgify, but to her relief the cut remained clean for now, the bleeding having been contained for a moment at least.

Her relief washed over her. Her knowledge of healing charms was really quite basic and she had very little idea as to how to proceed had these spells failed her. But luckily they seemed to be effective enough to buy her some time, hopefully long enough for the official ministry healers to arrive.

Relaxing slightly now that the immediate danger seemed to be averted, she knelt down next the sofa by his head, leaning back on her heels. She waved her wand and the throw on the back of the seat sank down to cover him, and she produced a small glass of water as well, which he took in his right hand and sipped from several times. Some colour of sorts began to rise to his cheeks then, at least he did not look so translucent as he had just moments ago, and after a few more moments of silence he raised his head a little and said,

“Thank you.”

She stared once more at the cut on his shoulder. It seemed to be a shallow, minor wound, so small, so insignificant, yet she could see the blood pouring from it in her mind’s eye, and even now the ragged edges were a raw red, as if they were blindingly hot. She raised her hand up and gingerly moved it forward, a single finger stretching out, but she saw his body flinch as her hand neared the cut and she drew back.

“What curse caused this?” She asked him now that it appeared easier for him to speak.

“Not a curse. A sword,” he answered, meeting her eyes for the first time.

“A sword?” She said again, and then kicked herself a little, it seemed all she could do was repeat everything he said back to him. Then her brain made the connection, and realisation dawned on her. Her eyes widened. “You were stabbed?” she cried in a screeching tone, shock and fear coursing through her once again.

“Yes, Miss Granger, I was stabbed.” His teeth clenched together then for a second. Then he added, “by a ninja.”

“A ninja?” Hermione repeated his statement once again, but this time with the slight edge of disbelief in her tone, and an almost imperceptible hint of sarcasm.

“Yes, Miss Granger, a ninja!” he snapped, his anger rising, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. She felt for a moment as if she were back at school, and she lowered her own eyes timidly. “As hard as it may be for you to believe,” he continued. “He has been following me for three days now. I can’t evade him, he is everywhere. I was lucky to escape.”

She did not say “Escape?” this time, but the question must have been in her eyes when she looked up at him once more, since he spoke again.

“He was aiming for my heart.” He curled his long, pale right hand and pointed at himself, his slightly extended index finger gesturing to the centre of his heaving chest. “I realised he was behind me at the very last moment.”

“He attacked from behind?” She clarified. “It went right through you?” she asked in alarm, but he did not speak this time, merely laid his head back. She leant forward and grabbed him about the shoulders, pulling his upper torso forwards so that it leant against her own shoulder. The sound he made was almost a roar of pain. She reached her arms around him and stripped his shirt from his back, flinging it to the side, and stared down the smooth pale skin to the gash which streaked across his left shoulder blade, the entrance wound to the exit at his chest.

“Oh, God,” she murmured to herself.

Unlike the clean cut on his chest, this wound was savage, torn, the mangled and raw edges of the gash clotted with dark glossy blood. His skin was pulled tighter by the position of his body leaning over, and the two sides of the parted flesh were dragged apart by the tension. They gaped horribly wide, showing the ripped flesh going deeper and deeper and, worse of all, she could see the thin pieces of bone which had been his shoulder blade, sticking up through the wound like jagged teeth. As with the other side of his body, the skin around the wound was a bright red, as if the area was already infected and feverish. Her breath caught in her throat, and she gasped a little, and laid him as gently as she could back down again. A chill ran down her spine as she saw red droplets of blood begin to seep from the cut on his chest again, and she pressed her hand down on the wound, instinctively applying pressure despite his loud groan of pain.

“Professor – The blood – ” she said haltingly. “I need bandages,” she said desperately.

“No, it won’t work,” he said to her then, looking her right in the eyes again now, panting heavily, the sweat pouring down his face.

“Only until the Healer – ” she began, but he interrupted her sharply.

“No!”

This single syllable filled the room, but seemed to take some of his little energy with it, he sagged a little more and his head rolled back, as did his eyes. He swung his head back up, though, and looked at her again.

“The blade – was enchanted – ” he continued between ragged breaths. “It will continue to bleed – unless it is healed. Thoroughly – from the inside – outwards.”

He took a few more deep breaths. His bare chest rose and fell, rose and fell beneath her pressing hand. Then he drew in deeply once more, holding her gaze.

“You must do it,” he said smoothly.

“No – no,” she shook her head. “It’s too complex,” she babbled. “Flesh, bone – it’s too advanced. I don’t know the charms.”

“It takes – just one. One – single – spell.” Every word was an immense effort. There were drops of sweat falling from his hooked nose, his jaw, every inch of bare skin slick with perspiration. His breathing was still raw and erratic, his panting loud in the quiet room. He steeled himself up again and once more looked into her eyes. “I’ll – teach you,” he said, and there was the faintest hint of a smile at the corners of his drawn mouth, even now, despite his obvious suffering.

Her mind was freewheeling though, images of the possible outcomes of her mistakes reeling through her thoughts, macabre clusters of clumped skin and bone, disfiguring growths destroying the man if she failed her one attempt. Adding to the problem, the wound was positioned just below the gnarled scar tissue of Nagini’s bite, and she knew enough about the dangers of recurring injuries and latent venom in old wounds for this fact to worry her. Plus the enchantment on the blade was obviously a strong and dark magic – the blood was leaking between her fingers now, the effects of the clotting charm quickly wearing off. This was major magic she was being asked to perform. She had not cast such an important spell since the war years, and now self-doubt haunted her.

“You do it,” she said quickly, offering her wand – the gripping end – towards him with her free hand. More moans of pain left him, he shook his head.

“No.” A deep breath in through his flared nostrils. Then, “Unfamiliar – wand.” And she nodded, understanding. She was scared enough by the thought of the spell even with her own wand.

He dragged his right forearm across his eyes, wiping away the sweat, and his whole body tensed with the movement. She felt the spurt of blood shoot from the wound beneath her hand and more dripped from underneath him. Once more his head lolled back.

“Please – ” he whispered. “Quickly.”

Her stomach dropped again at the feel of more of his precious blood spilling from his body with every pulse of his heartbeat. Her own body shuddered. Her head was thumping. To buy herself a few more desperate seconds of time, she once more cast the clotting and numbing spells. His breathing slowed considerably, but he was still sweating, still suffering greatly and nearly frantic.

“The spell is redintegro,” he told her, able to speak more clearly now. “With a double-looped Hayes flourish and a dragged end to the south-east,” he said, and she steadied her shaking hands and practised the combination of wand techniques swiftly in one movement. He watched from the corner of his eye and nodded. “Perfect,” he said plainly, with little emphasis on the almost-compliment. “But you must be subtle – small.” His right hand waved, his thumb and index finger pinched together as if he too were holding a wand. “Inside the wound,” he added.

She nodded as he had done and copied him, her tiny wand manoeuvre smooth despite her jangling nerves. He watched the flick of the wand again and then closed his eyes as he said,

“That’s it.”

Hermione swallowed, her mouth was dry, but she could sense the bitter taste of fear. She wondered how long it had been since she had called the Healers, but it was only mere minutes since he had appeared at her door. Help wouldn’t be near yet. She would have do this herself, and very soon. Another wave of fear washed over her, and she was confused by it, confused at the lack of the famous Gryffindor courage she seemed to be showing, so she set her jaw firmly and squared her shoulders.

“Redintegro,” she muttered to herself, practising this also, but her brave show could not hide her abject terror. Possibilities flashed in her mind again. If she failed the spell he might be altered completely, if she got it even slightly wrong he could easily die as a consequence. Yet if she did nothing he would certainly bleed to death, leaving her alone once again in the tiny cottage. Nausea flared inside her.

“Oh God,” she murmured again with a stifled gasp. “I can’t do this,” she whispered, mostly to herself.

“You were the most capable student I have ever taught,” he said suddenly, firmly, in his commanding teacher’s tone, his eyes open and staring at her. “You remain one of the most powerful witches of your or any generation.” His breathing was becoming shallower once more, the intense pain returning. He spoke more quietly again. “You can do this.” His eyes closed. “You must do it – hurry.” Another deep breath in, and he wheezed. “The clotting – won’t last.”

Even as he said this the first slight drops of blood once more began to seep from the cut. It was now or never. She stood and leant very slightly forward. His right hand touched hers as lightly as a feather, and stilled it.

“It must be in – the entrance wound – ” he coughed and the blood flow accelerated. “– Behind me – ” he gasped.

She understood him and side stepped til she was behind him, the sofa arm pressing against her thighs. Once more she cast the levitation spell, once more his body became light, and once more she leant him forward to consider the ugly wound on his back. Her left hand gripped her wand with her first two fingers and thumb, clinging onto it in desperation. The other hand was gipping, with just as much pressure, onto the bare skin of his right shoulder, supporting both her body and his. Both of her feminine hands trembled. She muttered once more.

“Oh, God.”

“Her – mione,” he whispered brokenly. Another deep breath. She leant down over him gently, moving her ear nearer. “You can do this.” She could barely hear him at all, his whisper was so faint. His right hand came up and rested on hers with infinite softness, like a sigh. “I – trust you.”

The thrill of his kind words was like pure liquid hope coursing through her veins, his faith in her banked the flames of her own faith in herself. Trust was why she had always fought on the right side, trust and the undeniable kindness in others. Was she not a Gryffindor? A third of the Golden Trio? With a determined upward tilt of the chin and no further ado, she stuck the tip of her want into the angry wound and cast the spell.

“Redintegro!"

Her mouth twisted in distaste as she felt the squelching of her wand between his flesh, felt the grinding of the pieces of bone rubbing together and against the piece of wood, and heard his anguished cry of agony. But her hand moved swiftly and true, and as subtle as it had ever been. The spell was forged, silver sparks issued from her wand into the deep stab-wound, glowing with a pure star-like light.

He collapsed forward at once, pulling out of the grasp of her hand on his good shoulder, resting on his knees and the palm of his good arm. Moans of pain still come from his throat, and the skin around his wound was writhing and stretching back and forth. He lurched forward and twitched and shook while this macabre display continued. After what seemed like almost a minute, the strange fusion of the flesh on his back was complete, leaving nothing but a white scar, and his painful groans were quiet. His body went slack and collapsed face down on the sofa, then slipped to the side so that he rolled right off, landing on his back on the bloody floor with a thump and one last muffled moan.

She was beside him instantly, kneeling down, irrationally afraid for an awful moment that he might be dead. His breathing was strong and steady though, the calmest it had been since he tumbled through her front door.

“Professor Snape?” she said aloud, but he showed no sign that he had heard her. She shook him gently and this too had no effect.

“Severus…” she said, more firmly and louder, and she gave him a stronger shove. This time his eyes flicked open for a second or two, trying to focus on her face but failing, and he closed them again as he slipped into a deep and exhausted sleep.

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Another A/N: Again, please R&R =) 'Siccus' is sort-of Latin for 'dry' and 'Redintegro' is sort-of Latin for 'restore'. Thank you muchly!