All Wounds Heal In Time

This is a short chapter compared to my usual offerings, yet more of lots of talking and no-one even saying anything, but once again I wanted to include this so I have done. The inclusion of ‘nights’ after the ‘days’ is because of a good reason, you’ll have to keep reading to find out why though! It might be a while since I’m working early tomorrow, blergh. Please rate or review if you like it and give me something to enjoy when I get home! I do really want to know your opinion. Thank you for reading.

~ Love, Marie.

Review Replies

Draconovix: Thank you for your very kind words! I’m so glad you’re enjoying the story, I think its a bit slow right now but I hope it will be worth it all in the end! :)

Maggiecate: Thank you so much for you lovely comments, and your advice about both posting fictions and muscle deterioration! (It the boyfriend who suggested entropy – Men! *rolls eyes*) I like anyone who likes my George. Oh, George! I feel for him even now. I hope you enjoy the rest of the story.

Coopershawk: Thank you for reviewing! Enjoy the upcoming chappies.

Jayne Elizabeth: Thanks for the review. It makes me write more! *posts* See?


~ Monday Night ~

What was it that she had expected really? Hermione thought to herself. Perhaps she had imagined that he would leap to his feet, his body and mind restored, the bezoar working – well – like magic. In the back of her worrying mind she had imagined worse outcomes as well, his being wracked with pain as Nagini’s brutal venom was purged from his body, even death. What she hadn’t expected to happen was nothing.

Harris had dashed to the fireplace, which Hermione noticed was considerably larger than it had been prior to Professor McGonagall’s crafty transfigurations, stuck his head in and told of the professor’s arrival to the wizards waiting at Grimmauld Place. Other than that notification no further words were said. Harris, Hermione and the Headmistress all stood in a line while they watched the body on the chintz sofa, the potions teacher so very still he might have been a corpse.

There was the sound of a soft popping and the feint smell of magic as George, Arthur, Crampiddle and the other ministry wizards flooed into the room. None of them said anything. They stood and stared, silently, just watching.

Hermione could not help but look at the other people in the room. Harris seemed to be monitoring both Snape’s body and the machines, eager for a sign of reaction as she was, but for McGonagall, George and the others it was different. They stood in a sort of semi-circle around her mother’s favourite couch, staring wide-eyed and with disbelief at the infamous Severus Snape, who lay covered to the chest with the thin ambulance blanket. George stood near the far arm of the sofa where the professor’s large bare feet were resting, his father standing just behind, and both of them wore the same expression of shock and disgust that was hovering over the features of all of wizards in the room. They were all seeing him for the first time, she realised, they could see now for themselves how thin and ill he really was. How empty he seemed. With another glance around the room she concluded that it was unlikely that any of them had not known him in his previous life, as a teacher or colleague or even just because of his reputation, all of them had a memory with which to compare the shell of a man before them now. The idea of it all humbled her a little, that despite the hard life he had already had, he was still able to capture the attention of a room full of people.

No-one’s laughing now, she thought a little selfishly.

It was Macintyre Crampiddle who recovered first, which was to be expected from a retired healer, and he moved forward and took hold of Snape’s wrist. He busied himself for a few moments more, casting various examination spells and charms, while she stepped forward and pulled at the sheets so that they covered the professor’s bare feet.

“It’s working,” Crampiddle said simply, turning round and smiling with relief. Minerva seemed to sag at the knees, her face breaking into a smile, rather than the worried glare that had occupied it before.

“It might not look like it,” Mac said as he cast a few more spells to be sure, “but the venom is being extracted from his body. I’m not sure how long it will take, but it will probably be some hours. The venom has had years to infiltrate into his system.”

“Shall we move him to Hogwarts then?” One of the other ministry wizards spoke, stepping forward. “Or Mungo’s?”

“Hrm,” Crampiddle pondered for a moment, tapping his wand on his chin. “I’m inclined to say neither for now. Drawing venom with a bezoar is a particularly delicate business. Moving him at all while the process is occurring may end in unpredictable complications.” He turned to Minerva, seeking her council. “You were absolutely right to administer the bezoar as soon as possible. Even after all this time mere moments might have made a difference. Now we must wait for the results. It should be finished some time tomorrow. I really think it is in his best interest to keep him exactly where he is until then.”

The Headmistress wrinkled her forehead for a moment while studying once again the prone body of a man who had been both her student and her colleague, her enemy and her ally, and Hermione couldn’t help but notice that the wise old witch glanced in her direction as well. The brief look sent chills down the girl’s spine which she couldn’t explain or ignore.

“I agree,” Minerva said then, nodding her head once in an authoritative manner. “If it’s your medical opinion, Mac, then of course he must stay here.”

“But – Headmistress – ” George said hesitantly as he moved towards their former head of house, and the way he stared across at Hermione was as obvious as Minerva’s glance had been discrete.

“Alright, Mr. Weasley,” the teacher said in a firm but not unkind tone, her hand held out, palm showing. “I am aware of your concerns,” she reassured him, “but we will have to talk about it later.”

George stood for a few seconds, his fists clenched at his sides, his jaw flexing as he ground his teeth. She wondered if he would speak out against the Headmistress, but although he must of considered it he chose to remain silent, the fight going from his body as he took a step back again. Hermione was holding her breath, and she wondered if everyone else was, too.

“Arthur, George,” Minerva said, touching them both gently on the arm. “Would you go back with the other ministry wizards to Grimmauld Place, and see about the muscle restorative too.” She turned to Crampiddle. “I assume he will still need the restorative?” The healer nodded.

“Would you mind if I went back to Grimmauld Place?” Harris asked quietly. “I could do with some sleep.”

“Of course,” McGonagall said, nodding at the young man. “And Hermione, you must get some rest too. You can sleep upstairs, I assume?”

Hermione nodded an assent but opened her mouth to speak as she did so and, to her astonishment and intense annoyance, the old witch held up her hand again to silence her. Like George she found the force of the gentle, wrinkled palm impossible to fight against, she remained silent but her resentment built up inside her quietly. Professor McGonagall continued speaking.

“Mac and I will stay here and watch over Professor Snape while the bezoar is working. Once that is done, hopefully the professor himself will have something to say as to what happens to him next. Now everyone should know what they’re doing, let’s get down to it.”

There was a shuffling of movement as the wizards queued up to floo once more, but they all hesitated as long as possible, stealing last glimpses of the haunted face of Severus Snape. George lingered for a moment, but when Arthur came and gently lead him to the fireplace he went with him easily enough. Hermione stood in the centre of a room which was quickly emptying again, and she wasn’t sure what to think or do. She crossed over to Professor McGonagall, touching her arm to get her attention, wanting to pull it until they were face to face.

“What is this supposed prophecy?” Hermione asked quickly, trying to keep her voice a whisper.

McGonagall turned towards her then, open-mouthed, and said “How much do you know?”

“Hardly anything,” Hermione admitted honestly, hoping for answers.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything more right now, you should go to sleep. We can talk about it in the morning.”

“No, please – ” Hermione began pleading her case. “I have to know. Don’t you think I should know?”

“Tomorrow!” Minerva said firmly, and Hermione knew somehow that it wouldn’t do any good to argue. She muttered a sort of ‘good night’ but it wasn’t really clear, and only stopped to take her shoes off in the hall before climbing the stairs to her old bedroom, her stomach churning.

There were photographs in black frames lining the staircase, her mother’s favourite moments of captured time, her father and mother and uncles and cousins laughing and smiling out of the old photographs. Despite her simmering anger, she couldn’t help but hesitate as she passed the dusty frames, staring at the pictures that looked so strange because they were so still. She wished she could see them moving, smiling, hugging each other. There were pictures of her on the wall too, some holiday photos in France which really weren’t flattering, and a photograph from her graduation – the only time her parents had ever been to Hogwarts. She stood on the staircase, her hips titled because of her uneven footing, using her wand to see the picture clearly in the dim electric light. She had a copy of that photo too, though hers was magical and moved and this one was as still as the others, but she continued to stare, transfixed. It seemed like such a strange combination, her parents standing proudly and properly with Hermione between them in her black robes with red and gold trimming and even a witches’ hat, the walls of Hogwarts stretching up behind them like a shadow.

It had been such a wonderful day, even though it had been so odd, the meeting of two worlds which had been almost entirely separated up to that point. Even if it had only been one day, she was glad that it had happened, and it made her heart ache knowing that her mother had put the photo on her prized picture wall. She wondered how they had explained the hat to their friends. Halloween, probably. It was such a convenient excuse.

There were plenty of pictures that she wasn’t in though, her father’s fiftieth birthday – she had missed that. The birth and christenings of her cousins. She hadn’t been there for any of them. Picnics, Christmas nativity plays, barbeques in the summer. The whole family, happy together, except her.

Two steps up was Hermione’s favourite photograph, a portrait of her mother after she received her degree, the first in her family to go to university despite being a woman. She graduated in London in 1966, she was twenty at the time, and this picture of her seemed to represent everything Hermione thought about that crazy era in her mother’s life. It was black and white, her mother’s skin looked like porcelain and her teeth were perfect, her eyes surrounded by vivid black make-up which ended at the corners in very retro flicks. She had a mortar board balanced on her head but it was possible to make out a little of her boyish hairstyle underneath, looking flawless despite having the same wild curls. Hermione stepped up again, seeing more pictures of her parents when they were young, and even then her mother always managed to look stunning. Her hair was never flyaway, whether she wore it long or short, it looked perfect. Her dresses were always immaculate and well chosen for the occasion. Despite being a respected dental surgeon and referenced researcher - the grip of her hand on the degree in the portrait illustrated the passion for knowledge that she shared with her daughter - she was still the most elegant lady that Hermione had ever had the pleasure of knowing.

A familiar ache settled round her heart, singing in every nerve and choking her, so that it was hard to breathe. With everything else going on, she really didn’t need to miss her mother. But she did, awfully.

It was dark and silent upstairs, the empty staleness of the place even more evident than in the lower rooms, the air having the slight chill of damp even though the days had been so hot recently. She took a deep breath, turned on the light and stared, hesitating at the door to her parent’s room. Her hand went forward and gripped at the doorknob, but she did not turn it, and instead she turned away from the door altogether and walked to her own room.

Being in her parent’s room might have been unbearable, since it was bad enough when she stepped into her own. She didn’t really see it as hers, since she had been at Hogwarts when her parents had moved, and she took the flat with Ron immediately after leaving school. She had never stayed in this house for longer than a week or so. Despite this the sound of the door opening, the smell of polish and books that washed over her when she stepped inside, they all spoke of her past and of her childhood. There were books she had owned for nearly twenty years lining the walls on shelves her father had put up for her, arranged into her own meticulous order, and there were old dolls and teddies arranged on her bed by her mother. The ache inside turned into tears she couldn’t stop, they ran down her cheeks unimpeded.

She sat at the desk in the high-backed dining room chair that had been a bargain at an Easter car boot sale, she’d got it because it reminded her of Hogwarts, and nibbled on her lip for a few minutes. She waited until being in the room didn’t feel quite so odd, realising as she did so that she had left her rucksack with her pyjamas and toiletries inside downstairs. But she was tired and she really didn’t feel like facing the wall of photographs again, so she took one of the spare nighties from the chest of draws, casting a few cleansing spells on her naked body before pulling the nightwear down over her head. It was a bit tighter than she expected, but then she realised that it must have been bought at least three years ago, and she had grown a bit even since then.

She climbed into the bed, wincing at the feel of the cold sheets on her bare legs, sweeping her hands across the duvet and throwing herself down onto the pillow. The sheets smelled of her mother’s clean laundry, but she tried to ignore that.

The prophesy kept nagging at her attention, her frustration at having to wait for answers was still bubbling inside her, she felt angry and annoyed. She hauled herself up on one elbow and punched at the pillow with her free hand, whacking it more than was really necessary, plumping it up before collapsing on it again with a huff.

She thought suddenly about Harry, and she found she understood more than she ever had before the frustration he must of felt at times before and during the war, when Dumbledore and others had purposefully kept him out the loop. The secrets of the Order she shared with Ron must have been far more hurtful to Harry than she realised at the time. Now that she found herself in a very familiar situation the secrecy of everyone around her cut at her nerves like a knife. She couldn’t bear the knowledge that there was speculation about her everywhere, theories and concerns being discussed without her input, decisions about her best interests being made without anyone even telling her. Poor Harry had had to deal with that, and his situation really was one of life or death, the decisions of his guardians affecting much more than any of them could have possibly realised. George and Arthur had been serious when they discussed her prophesy at the kitchen table, but even though they considered her with obvious concern, she refused to believe whatever she was involved in could be anywhere near as important or dangerous as those Harry had faced. She wasn’t bringing down Voldemort or saving the future of the wizarding people, nor was she risking herself any more than she had done when helping the other people she had recovered, she was doing her job and trying to help somebody that was deserving and very much in need of it.

Why then did she still not know anything about the prophesy? What was so important that it had to be kept secret from her? It didn’t make sense. If it was a positive thing that was happening, as Dumbledore seemed to think it would be, she couldn’t see how her knowing about it or not would make the slightest difference. She may as well know as not – secrecy didn’t seem to fit.

And if, on the other hand, the whole thing really did mean danger to her in some way, well then surely it would be better to be honest and tell her what to expect. She couldn’t see a good argument for anyone keeping the information from her either way. That made it even more frustrating.

She huffed again, turning onto her other side, pulling the duvet up to her neck to keep the damp chill from her neck and back. She was tired and she wanted rest, but her mind was whirling at such a pace, she didn’t think she could possibly turn off long enough to fall to sleep. She had to know what was going on. How was her caring for Snape of all people going to affect her so greatly? What danger was she really in? She had to know. Tomorrow she would ask Professor McGonagall, and George, and she would try to talk to Dumbledore again for sure. Tomorrow she would get some answers, before it was too late.

Despite her whirling mind and churning anger, even though she was still missing her parents so much it was a constant hurt inside, she did manage to sleep. Eventually.

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The darkness subsided slowly, like a body in a murky lake. What was left was the pain.

Pure, white, screaming pain. It engulfed him entirely, it chewed at his skin like one hundred rabid dogs. If he had been able he might have wept for his soul, but he was in too much pain to even cry. He could not speak, think, or barely even conceive of anything but his absolute agony.

Like the whisper of an old friend the blackness of sedation called him back, and he sank gratefully once more into the echoing arms of sweet dark oblivion.

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A/N: Please let me know what you think. I would be so pleased!