All Wounds Heal In Time

I have been ashamedly long in posting once again, but I won’t bore you with the details of my house-moving woes or stupid F key malfunctions! I’ll try my hardest to keep up this posting malarky! :)

I have had a bit of writers block (“I need the infirm!!” – cookie to the person who can name the film, it’s a favourite of mine) and I think this chapter’s a bit plain, like beige. But the good news is that I can start playing with Severus again! Yay! This has loosened the grip of my sleeping plot bunny now, it is awake and bouncing. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy it and please review. Hope you are having lovely summers/winters! ~ Love Marie

Review Replies

Draiconovix: I am sorry I’ve made you wait so long! The prophesy has been driving me nuts too – completely! Ack I had no idea how hard it is to actually write a prophesy. I am obviously not cut out to be a soothsayer. Thank you for reviewing!

Annemarie: So glad you like my story, and I hope you enjoy what’s to come. :) Thanks for the review.

VoraciousReader: Thanks for your continued support, as ever! Sorry it’s been so long. :)

Maggiecate: I am very pleased you liked the ‘interim’ chapter, I would like it down to skill but I think it’s more just an inclination to ramble on! Hope you enjoy the next chapter and sorry for the wait.

Sevsgirl: I know! It’s coming! Promise! :D

MewMew2: Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story and leave a review. I am happy to post for lovely reviews like you! Sorry it has been a while :\

JayneElizabeth: Your reviews made me giggle and I’m sorry I didn’t have it up any sooner, really I am ashamed. I hope you won’t be too disappointed by the prophesy either! ;O Thank your for reviewing.

DarklessVasion: Ah yes, the waiting game! I hate waiting for things, and as I have now said repeatedly I am very sorry for making you wait so long for this chapter. I shall try to do better – I must! Thank you for your review. :)




~ Day Nine ~

For the first time since she had been a child, Hermione woke up with the feeling of not knowing quite where she was. During her first few years at Hogwarts it had always taken her a few nights at the start of each term to adjust to the new surroundings, the same when she returned home again, but once she was older she had found herself in many strange situations on awaking – and had learnt not to let it surprise her. It was funny then that sleeping in this bed should affect her again after all these years, but maybe it had something to do with her dreams as well. She had been dreaming about her mother.

She still felt tired, she wasn’t sure how long she had slept, but there was a watery early morning light coming from her window. She got up quickly, straightening the duvet and sitting down on the edge of the bed, not wanting to go back to sleep despite her tiredness. She gathered her clothes and padded across the landing into the bathroom. She closed the door softly and slid the bolt across, turning the shower on to warm while she swiftly undressed and dragged her hairbrush through her ragged hair, wincing as she pulled at the snagging tangles.

She held her hand under the spray, feeling the warm water splash onto her palm for a moment before she stepped into the bath and under the shower, pulling the curtain across behind her.

It wasn’t as though there weren’t showers in the wizarding world, but there was a definite inclination towards baths, and those showers that they did have were often too weedy to be called decent anyway. They couldn’t compare to the pounding water from the head of her father’s trusty power shower, the whirring pump was loud in the box on the wall but the water continuously fell in a deliciously warm wave of cleanliness. She let the feeling of the flow wash over her skin, warming her to her bones and relaxing every muscle. She just stood as the water poured over her, feeling.

After a while she came to her senses and began to clean herself. There was a bar of soap on the side which must have been old, but as far as she was aware soap didn’t spoil, and it worked well enough once she had lathered it up in her hands a little. Washing her hair was more of a problem. She instinctively went to the bottle of her mother’s shampoo, designed as it was for hair like hers, but when she opened the lid with a snap the smell that drifted up was such a strong reminder of the woman she missed so much that she couldn’t help but snap the bottle shut again. She was considering the possibility of washing her hair with the soap as well, but was thankfully saved from such measures when she noticed her father’s unremarkable supermarket shampoo, balancing on the edge of bathtub. It would leave her hair an unmanageable mess but it was better than the alternatives.

After taking just a few more moments to relish the feel of the powerful water, she stepped out of the bath and got dressed quickly, leaving her hair down since she had the time to let it dry naturally. She took a deep breath and then went downstairs.

Professor McGonagall was sitting in a small wooden chair which she must have transfigured for herself, since Hermione didn’t recognise it, and she turned to her former student while pressing her finger up to her wrinkled lips in a gesture of silence. The headmistress then pointed to the corner where Macintyre Crampiddle was asleep, snoring slightly, in her father’s red armchair. The two ladies smiled at each other and the professor rolled her eyes in a mock expression of exasperation, but a kind one, then she tapped at her chair with her wand so that it lengthened into a sort of bench. She patted the new space with her old hand and Hermione sat down beside her Head of House, both of them quiet for a moment as they sat and stared at the sofa across from them, where Snape lay as still as he had done the night before.

“How is he doing?” Hermione whispered into the quiet room.

“Fine, as far as we can tell,” the old witch answered barely any louder, her accent as soft as the morning light. “Mac seemed quite optimistic, enough to sleep, anyway.” They shared a smile again and both glanced back to where the old healer was still snoozing. Then they turned back to the younger man on the couch and Minerva seemed to tense slightly.

“He did have some sort of fit during the night,” she continued, concern lining her face. “A few hours after you went to bed. Every part of him tensed up and he was shaking, and – well – *moaning*,” the headmistress said with a look of something akin to distaste, but much more sorrowful.

“Moaning?” Hermione asked in surprise. Minerva nodded.

“Only for a few moments, but it was awful. It sounded as if he were burning or drowning, his voice was almost inhuman.” The old witch stared at the unconscious professor, her head shaking from side to side slowly. “He looks so thin,” she finished. “I almost can’t believe he is the same man.” Her head was still swaying. “Poor Severus.”

Although she wasn’t one to delight in saying ‘I told you so’, Hermione couldn’t help but savour again the smug feeling of self-affirmation that came with the Headmistress’ worried glances. It wasn’t that she wanted Minerva to feel it keenly, though she obviously did, but the way she had been met with laughter when she most needed help had stuck with her. It had almost felt, by the end of the last week – had it really only been a week? – that she had deluded herself as to how ill Snape had really looked. Now that the people who had helped instil that doubt were themselves obviously shocked by his painfully thin appearance, she felt much better about herself, and reassured in her judgements.

“The nurses said he sometimes had fits in the night. I didn’t think to ask if they included moaning,” Hermione said, and for some reason it suddenly struck her as funny. Whether it was what she had said that was funny, or whether it was the idea of his moaning or even the whole darn situation she didn’t know, but suddenly she was seized in a deep and uncontrollable chuckle which almost immediately made her sides ache. It was breathy and quiet, she didn’t want to wake Crampiddle, nor did she want Snape to hear her laughing at him. But she continued to shake as she clamped her hands over her mouth, and a single tear rolled down her laughing face.

“Hermione!” Minerva said her name as a warning, her tone quiet yet severe, but her own mouth was twitching up at the corners at the sight of the young witch’s giggling fit.

“Sorry!” Hermione wheezed out as she pulled herself together and sat up straight, waving her hands quickly to cool her red face. She cleared her throat. “Sorry,” she repeated with much more composure. She sighed. ‘Perhaps I see the funny side,’ she thought to herself, ‘just when I needed to.’

“It is possible that these fits are to do with Nagini’s venom, though.” Hermione stood and quickly extracted her notebook from her bag, which was hanging from one of the coat hooks in the hall, not letting her momentary loss of control distract her from her job. She flipped through it quickly, opening it to the relevant bookmarked pages of her notes, showing them to the headmistress. “If the bezoar is working as I estimate it should do, it could be entirely likely that he would suffer some kind of seizures as the paralysing affect of the venom on his muscles is counteracted.” The old woman nodded as she listened and read through the scrawled paragraphs and diagrams that the ex-Head Girl gestured to as she talked.

“You do not think there will be lasting side effects?” The professor whispered seriously.

“As far as I can tell, based on the little writing there is about that serpent species’ particular venom, there shouldn’t be. But there’s no evidence of any studies being undertaken for such a long period of time as Professor Snape has endured. I had no idea that the venom could even have some sort of preservation element, most thought quite the opposite – that it should be fatal.” She turned her light brown eyes towards the sofa, towards the wiry body stretched out in what looked like a very uncomfortable position, the veins raised on his arms and neck and the glisten of sweat on his forehead indicating the strain that held his whole body taught. His eyes were closed and his head was thrown back, his hair was greasy again as it splayed out around his shoulders. “It still seems miraculous to me that he even survived at all,” she finished as she sat down next to her old teacher and looked her in the eye. “Five years is such a long time.”

“You’re right, it is,” the old witch said, but her voice was even as it was quiet. “But Professor Snape’s tenacious hold on life does not surprise me, he has always had more lives than a cat. If Nagini’s venom itself was not fatal then his surviving the bite is impressive, but not unexpected, especially considering the care and protection he was provided by muggles in the interim time.”

Hermione felt as if the weight of McGonagall’s tone held more to it than just respect. It was strange working so closely with her old mentor once again, even though her work still kept the memories of the war years in her mind, she had had very little to do with any of the members of the Order that she didn’t see some way or another through her job with the ministry. Now she was working on a perplexing case with the old witch once again but, unlike during her school days, the headmistress was addressing her like an adult. Possibly even like a friend. Whether it was a change that had recently come about in the older woman, or whether it was simply that Hermione had not noticed the change in their interaction before she did not know, but she was very glad indeed that – now at least – the headmistress was taking her seriously.

She had to know about the prophesy.

“Headmistress – ” she began, but she was interrupted by a loud pop as Arthur flooed in through the fireplace. She thought a rude word.

“Oh Arthur!” McGonagall said shrilly, rising to her feet. “How good of you to come so soon.” The haste in which the woman stood showed her disinclination to have the conversation she must have guessed was coming, and Hermione wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the headmistress had willed the man there against his own free will. However, it turned out that he did have a reason to come of his own accord. He held it awkwardly in his hands.

“Here we are,” he said, putting down the large cardboard box onto the coffee table, which had been pushed aside hurriedly last night. “McInty and Matthews have searched high and low in every storeroom of the ministry, and I’m afraid this is all they could find. The papers are in a folder inside.”

“Thank you for bringing them over. Will you stay for a cup of tea?” The old woman glanced across at Hermione, and she wished he would not stay and interrupt her questions further. Fortunately Arthur glanced her was as well, and shook his head at the look on her face.

“No, no,” he said quickly. “Molly will be doing breakfast, I mustn’t be late.”

And without much more of a word or gesture, he vanished back through the fireplace. Hermione turned to her old teacher, with her hands on her hips, and opened her mouth to demand an explanation regarding the mysterious prophesy.

“Just help me with this, won’t you?” McGonagall said smoothly, looking down at the cardboard box as she spoke, interrupting the younger witch before she could speak.

Hermione dropped her arms to her sides in frustration, but she couldn’t help but feel curious as to the box which Minerva was slowly opening, and she took a few steps nearer.

“What is it?” She asked.

“His things,” the older witch replied, with a glance towards the sofa.

She felt a thill of excitement, or maybe fear, as she stepped towards the open box, wondering what might be inside it and whether or not the potion’s master would mind her looking at them. When she did peer inside though, she felt an odd feeling of sadness wash over her, and the only reason she could think of as an explanation was simply that there wasn’t much of interest at all. The space inside was larger than the flimsy cardboard would suggest, a more sturdy looking case built from wood, which was segmented into five or six compartments of various sizes. A leather folder lay on the top, string tied round it to hold it together, and a parchment label on the front read:

~Professor Severus Snape; Order of Merlin Second Class (Posthumous); MA: Proficient Potions and Operose Brewing, Ministry Academy of Brewing, First Class

Professor of Potions, Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

War Hero

B. 09.01.60
D. 22.07.98~

She reached in to take the folder, but Minerva’s wrinkled hand was faster, taking the file and moving with it nearer to the window. She stood with the open folder tilted towards the morning light, flipping quickly through the papers. Hermione watched her for a moment or two, then turned back to the box which seemed to contain everything that could be found, belonging to Severus Snape.

A piece of notepaper was taped to the inside of the box, and she gently pulled at it ‘til it came free. Once she could read it clearly, she saw that it was an inventory of the objects obtained and the location where they were found. It was really a pathetically short list. There were a few items of clothing, a blanket and only twelve books taken from his house at Spinners’ End, apparently when it was sold at auction. Another two books and a notebook were found at Hogwarts. Other than the folder, which she assumed held any wills or deeds which concerned him, there was nothing of his apart from a few common items which barely filled the box. Except -

She turned the paper in her hand, lining the diagram on the page up with the layout of the box compartments before her, then reached into the section that was indicated. There was another small cardboard box, thin and narrow, and inside was his wand. At least he still had that.

But surely this couldn’t have been all that he had owned in the world? Fourteen books and some clothes? His other things must have been taken or destroyed somehow, probably during the war or shortly afterwards. She shook her head sadly.

Minerva was suddenly at her side again, poking about in the different sections of the box, before taking some of the clothes out and casting a laundry spell on them.

“I thought he might be more comfortable in his own things, but I will need help if I’m to do it without hurting him or moving him too much. Would you help me? You don’t have to.” She was whispering urgently.

“Of course I’ll help,” Hermione replied quietly, but she felt a twist of nerves inside for some reason.

“We’ll have to work quickly, before Mac wakes up and tells us off.”

With a wave of her wand, the headmistress lifted the unconscious professor from the sofa, a levitation spell raising him up so that they could easily reach around him.

“Here,” Minerva said, handing her his shirt. Then she leant forward and pulled away the ambulance blanket. She looked a little puzzled at the hospital gown he wore beneath it.

“It ties at the back,” Hermione explained, and she crouched a little so that she could reach underneath the floating body of her former teacher. She gently pushed his streaming hair to one side, revealing the tie at the nape of his neck. She gave one of the ends a tug, making it undo instantly, and showing bare skin beneath.

Hermione stood up straight, her face getting hot as she felt her blush rise to her cheeks, shocked even though it was obvious he would have nothing on underneath. Minerva bent over to undo the ties at his waist herself, but wasted no time in whipping the strange garment off once it was undone. Hermione quickly turned her head just in time, so that she could see no further down his torso than his belly button. What she did see, however, still made her gasp in surprise.

She knew he was thin, but the sight of his naked chest was painful and shocking. There was nothing but his protruding ribs and collar bones, the papery skin stretched so tightly across his skeleton it looked like it might tear at any moment, his arms so thin that had she tried to grasp one, the fingers and thumb on her hand would have met. She could see every bone, every jutting corner making his skin look transparent, and she could see the thumping of his heart in his chest. In the corner between his left arm and neck, his shoulder was an angry mix of white and dark pink scar tissue – the evidence of his bite from Nagini.

“Dear lord,” Hermione whispered, hardly believing that he could be alive at all.

Minerva must have been shocked as well, since she didn’t say anything, then shook herself and moved forward again. “Hurry up, girl,” she said as she worked.

Hermione slipped his nearest arm into the shirt before reaching over to do the same with the other, all the while with her head turned away completely from the view of his lower half, and also trying not to look at his face, or rather appealing line of his jaw when his head was tilted back as it currently was. She quickly did up the buttons of the white shirt, but she left the top one open so that he didn’t feel choked by the collar. It didn’t really matter, however, since the shirt was so large on his thin frame it was hard to believe that it could have ever been his.

Minerva was quick at her end too and before long they were able to lower him carefully back onto the sofa, hopefully more comfortable now that he was dressed. Even though the clothes had an air of familiarity about them they did not help to better his appearance, in fact they made him seem a bit unreal, his tiny thin body drowning in the clothes like a boy in his father’s suit.

“That’s better,” the headmistress said anyway, looking down on her colleague. Then she turned to Hermione. “Right then,” she said. “You’d better come into the kitchen, and I’ll give you your prophesy.”

====================

She was afraid that the old woman might want tea, or something else to delay further the moment when all would be revealed, but McGonagall did nothing but sit down at the kitchen table, obviously intent in getting directly to the point.

“Here,” she said bluntly, sliding something out onto the table.

Hermione sat down and picked it up. It was a piece of paper, which looked like it had been torn from a spiral-bound note pad, though it was less than half a sheet. It had a spell on it which surrounded it like a wrapper, protecting it. She looked at it closely. Thin words were scrawled in four lines.

~ New meaning for a darkened life
Once happy endings are over
When the sick heals the sick
And the girl brings light ~

The words were written hastily, the ink had smudged and blotted as if it had been scrawled in a hurry, and some of the words were difficult to make out. In the last line the word ‘girl’ had been underlined, and beneath it was written another scrawled note:

~ Gryffindor. ~

She turned the paper over but there was nothing written on the back. She read through the words again, and then looked up at her old Head of House.

“Are these notes on the prophesy?” She asked. The old woman shook her grey head.

“I’m afraid not. This *is* your prophesy, in its entirety.”

“This is it?” Hermione repeated with a gormless expression, looking down at the scrappy piece of notepaper. It was so unobtrusive, so small and seemingly insignificant, but apparently Dumbledore felt it to be important. She read through it again.

“I take it I am supposed to be the girl?” She pointed to the last line. “The Gryffindor?”

Minerva nodded slowly, but said nothing.

“But what does it mean?” Hermione asked desperately, although it wasn’t hard to guess at who the ‘darkened life’ belonged to, or what ‘bringing light’ to it might mean.

“Hermione, I’m not going to play with your intelligence. Before he died, Dumbledore told me that he believed that the words on that paper meant that – through some extraordinary means – ” McGonagall was choosing her words carefully. “You would offer some sort of – service – to Professor Snape – ” More hesitation. “ – To Severus, and that – because of that – you would form some sort of – attachment.”

“Attachment?” Hermione asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, quite frankly, Albus thought you would be lovers,” the headmistress said shortly.

“Oh.” Hermione replied simply, not knowing quite what to say, even as she felt the blush creep to her cheeks again.

“There are some things you should know,” the older witch continued, her voice more even now, and direct. “The first point is obvious, as you should remember from – back then,” she continued, meaning the wars years. “And that is that we can’t be certain that this is a prophesy with any relevance what-so-ever, let alone one concerning you.” Hermione nodded along silently as she heard this. “The second thing you should know is that it had been thought, previously, that this so-called ‘prophesy’ actually referred to another person entirely. You don’t need to know who,” Minerva said, “you didn’t know them. The point is that mistakes can be made and have been made already concerning this piece of paper.”

Hermione realised her mouth had been open slightly and she closed it quickly, bringing her hand up and rubbing at her face in a nervous gesture. The headmistress looked on with concern.

“I know that it mustn’t be a nice thing for you to hear,” McGonagall continued. “Hearing you are bound to someone is often more daunting than people realise.”

Hermione thought that she did have a point, seeing suggestive words such as these apparently linked to herself in some way was indeed a humbling thing. But she couldn’t believe that she didn’t have the over-ruling decision as to what happened in her own life. Words like this could be written, people like Dumbledore could believe that they then became inevitable, but she sure as hell didn’t. And a prophesy could be true and also not true – Harry did have to be killed to beat Voldemort, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t living happily now with Ginny, in his new family life.

“For what it’s worth,” McGonagall said quietly, “I don’t think this paper means you would end up sharing your life with Severus, anyway. Whatever Dumbledore might have thought, I myself doubt that the two of you would see eye-to-eye, as it were, when it came to such an understanding. If this paper does refer to you – which as I have said is unlikely – it would make much more sense to consider your helping him to recover as the ‘light’ in his life.”

Hermione nodded again, then stopped because she felt a little dizzy, and swallowed several times.

“Yes,” she said eventually. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“Well, I had better get back to the Professor.” The old witch stood, pressing her hands on the table to steady herself as she did so. She kept them there as she looked across at the young witch. “Are you alright?” she asked.

“Fine,” Hermione replied, but the sound was a little dry. “I think I might have to go to the office a while,” she added.

“I’ll contact you if there is any change in him,” Minerva said as she left. When she was at the doorway, however, she hesitated and spoke again. “Although there is much speculation I should tell you that, by the time he died, Dumbledore was fervent that his interpretation was correct.” Then she was gone.

Hermione sat quietly for a few minutes, pondering over the paper in her hands. ‘Once happy endings are over,’ the second line said. Did that mean her relationship with Ron? The supposed ‘happy ever after’ that Harry and Ginny shared, which had somehow not meant forever for her. She thought that it could do. Maybe.

She shook her head and put her face in her palm, laughing at herself before applying her unfailing logic to the situation. It was like the muggle horoscopes she used to read in the newspapers and her cousin’s girly magazines. If you thought about it, you could always bend the words around your life somehow, so that it looked as if they were right and knew everything about you. But when you looked at it realistically, what they were saying could apply to anyone, and the only real connections were the ones you made yourself. Reading this ‘prophesy’ now, the same thing applied. ‘New meaning in a darkened life’. That could mean absolutely anything, she reasoned. ‘New meaning’ could refer to a relationship, but it could just as easily imply a renewed interest in teaching, or indulging in a hidden talent, or finding a sudden interest in coin collecting.

But in the back of her mind she remembered the dream she had had about him, the way he had whispered to her and touched her face, she remembered how she had stared at the photograph of him taken while he was younger, and healthy. She had found him attractive, she had considered him in many different ways while his apparent unconsciousness had occupied her every thought. Was that because she was destined to love him in some way? Meant to be – she snorted and rolled her eyes – *‘soul mates’*?. She put the sarcastic tone on the words, even in her mind.

Suddenly she remembered watching the dream for the second time, in the dark of her own mind, remembering the intense embarrassment she felt at having him watch it too. His face was clear in her head then, his foul, twisted smirk and condescending manner. How mocking he had been, and cruel, and how *stupid* she had felt. The anger surged in her anew, her shame turning into feelings of resentment and incredulity, and she knew one thing then for sure. No matter what anyone thought or said, nothing could make her love Severus Snape.

She read the note one more time, brought it close to her face and studied the handwriting intently for a second, then barely paused to grab her jacket and say goodbye before she flooed directly to the ministry.

====================

Severus was going to be sick. He knew it absolutely, moments before it happened, and he used his right arm to heave himself up and to the side as far as he could before the inevitable came. Minerva was at his side instantly, with the intuition that only caring for teenagers for forty years could provide, a bucket ready for him. His hand grasped at the cool tin rim as he pulled it close, spitting the bezoar into the bottom with a clang. Then he was very sick indeed.

Over and over, he couldn’t seem to stop. His sides roared with pain, each of his limbs ached, all of his body screaming where previously he had felt nothing but empty numbness. Although nothing like as bad as it had been through the night, it was still the worst pain that he could ever remember. But there was nothing to be done as he retched endlessly into the metal bucket, his eyes screwed tightly shut as his body continued to expel wave after wave of foul-tasting filth. In a moment of calm amidst the chaos he glanced up, and saw not only Minerva but several other people watching him, open mouthed.

“How nice to have an audience,” he managed to say cuttingly in between lurches, and they all had the decency to turn away, slowly leaving one by one through the fireplace until only Minerva and the healer remained. After what seemed like hours, his stomach finally settled and he leant back against the arm of the sofa, he was so light that Minerva was able to support him completely.

She used her wand to create a glass of water similar to the one that Granger had provided, and he took it gladly in his right hand, using the first mouthful to rinse his mouth before spitting into the freshly scourgified bucket with a satisfying, metallic ring. Then he drank the contents of the glass in one go and laid back again, his eyes closed tightly.

“Send word to Hermione at the ministry, tell her he’s awake,” he heard Minerva speak, and the sound of someone quickly leaving via the fireplace. He kept his eyes shut for a few moments more, and then opened them.

Crampiddle was standing over him, having woken on hearing the commotion, and Severus looked up at the man whom he recognised as one of the greatest Healers that St. Mungos had ever known. The relief the younger man felt was unimaginable.

“Crampiddle,” he said with effort. “The pain!”

“Here,” the healer said, letting a measure of potion drop onto his tongue from a small bottle. He knew the taste of course, that of a general numbing solution, and it worked almost instantly. “And here, you must take one of these as well,” Crampiddle added, placing a small blue pill in Severus’ good hand.

“What is it?”

“Muscle restorative. ‘Molaciara procipiter’ - I’m sure you know it. You must begin a course of treatment immediately, and I’m afraid it will be a long one.”

Minerva held out a fresh glass of water and Severus took it, washing down the pill with two or three mouthfuls, his throat savouring every moment of fresh cooling liquid. The feeling of the water in his stomach made him instantly nauseous again, but he sat with his eyes closed once more until the sickness passed, without acting on it again. There was silence in the room for a few moments, and then he spoke.

“Minerva,” he said, opening his eyes and reaching his hand out to take her own. “It’s good to see you again.” There was the slightest, genuine smile on his face.

“Likewise,” the old witch said, taking his hand and holding it affectionately while she returned his smile. “I never got to thank you, for everything you have done for Albus, and the rest of us.”

“There’s no need for that,” Severus said roughly, embarrassment making his voice even lower. “Thank *you*, Crampiddle,” he said to change the subject, holding his hand out to the other man.

“How do you feel?” the witch asked.

“Terrible,” he replied truthfully, his eyelids drooping once again.

“Well sleep now, if you want to,” she told him, and even as she spoke he felt himself drifting off. “There’s plenty of time.”

McGonagall watched as he fell into a deep sleep, his body slumped and far more relaxed than it had been while the bezoar strained at his system. She took her seat in on the bench she had transfigured and sat quietly, thinking about nothing in particular. After a while a ministry wizard approached.

“I’m sorry, Headmistress,” he said. “I wasn’t able to contact Miss Granger. She was not at the ministry. Nobody seems to know where she is, although I have left a message for her.”

Minerva brought her hand up to her face, dragging it across her mouth and chin, then she nodded.

“Thank you,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll be back before long.”

But the wizard had already quietly slipped away. In the silent room, dim now the light of the day was fading, it seemed like she could only be talking to the hollow, sleeping professor.

====================

Hermione had gone directly to her desk in the small Recovery department, her hair loose and flying away behind her in unruly masses, curls whipping round her face and flushed cheeks. She had meant to talk to Dumbledore by any means necessary, she would have clawed her way into the painting if it would have helped, but Dumbledore quite simply wasn’t there. His velveteen cushioned gilded chair sagged in its vacancy, the dusty green curtain which acted as the backdrop did not move an inch, and the whole scene captured inside the empty frame was like a visual metaphor for the dejection she felt at finding him gone. She had sat in her chair like a rag doll, all the energy gone from her body, staring at the empty painting and hoping that he would appear for her at any moment.

But the picture remained as empty as ever, and she quickly grew restless as she always did when she tried to sit still and do nothing, so with little pause for thought she decided on the next best course of action. She had grabbed up her jacket and bag, cradling them to herself as she dashed for the lift, unfortunately missed by the scouting eyes of a man sent to deliver her a message.

Outside she dashed across the streets of traffic, cueing bonnet-to-boot in the glare of the evening sunshine as the workers tried to get home, feeling the heat radiating from the metal as she wove her way between the static cars. The entranceway to the underground was pleasantly cool in contrast, and she slipped into the crevice she knew so well, and apparated to Grimmauld Place. She had raced through the house, calling George’s name and flinging open doors in the hope of finding him, but the search proved futile. There was an opened packet of cigarettes on the kitchen table though, almost full, and she commandeered them without the slightest feeling of guilt, slipping the pack into her pocket as she passed.

Now she was walking along a quiet country road, keeping close to the grassy bank since there was no pavement, and puffing thoughtfully on one of her ill-gotten gains. Her parent’s house was right in the middle of the countryside, about three miles away from the village where they had opened a small surgery, wanting a different life to the one they had lead as high-profile dental surgeons in the city. When Hermione had seen the house for the first time it had taken her breath away, nestled as it was at the edge of a small wood, the garden at the back sweeping down into the bottom of the valley and then up again in a patchwork of fields and woodlands. Had she still been living with them, she would have shared their excitement at swapping their small and grimy city apartment for the untamed wilds of the outdoors, but she had been at Hogwarts by that time. It was a lovely place to come to, but she had never felt that she really belonged there.

She did love the surrounding country though, the days during school holidays which she chose not to occupy with studying had been few, but filled with miles of roads, tracks, paths, woods and anything else that she had managed to look at or scrambling through during her explorations of the welcoming nature. Once the war had began, she was glad of having places that were special to her, to which she alone could escape in order to consider the terrible things that were happening.

The cottage had been such a place, the ruined remains of a long-abandoned dwelling about a mile away from the house, the walls crumbling more with every year that past. When she had first discovered it, part of the roof remained, the slate tiles moss-laden and tipping drunkenly. Now there was not a slate left, the entire roof nothing but a bare patch of bright sky, the brick walls reaching upwards to nothing while ivy and time crept over them. The slates had made a shallow sort of hill in the middle of the crumbling room, grass and ferns growing over it now so that it was quite green and soft. It was here that she often chose to apparate when she visited her parents, since it shielded her from the gaze of hunters or ramblers who might see her appear in the open, and the walk to the farmhouse was really very pleasant.

Today the sky was turning from blue into a blazing crimson red, where the sun was starting to creep below the horizon, and wispy clouds of cream and grey reflected the scarlet light. Hedgerows lined either side of the road, with wild flowers and lush grasses growing around them, and bees and other busy insects flicked to and fro in the warmth of the glowing evening. She walked at a leisurely pace, feeling in no particular rush get back to the farmhouse, revelling in the scenery around her.

She took another drag on her cigarette. Neither Dumbledore nor George could avoid her forever, she was sure she would track them down eventually, and when she did they would answer all she had to ask them about this stupid prophesy and why they thought it meant so much. She could question McGonagall again, she supposed, but she had a feeling that the old woman had said about as much as she was likely to on the subject, and really it was probably better to think on the whole thing as little as possible – as hard as that was for her to do.

She followed the slowly curving road until she could see the red bricks of her parent’s house glowing in the evening sun, a little way away further down the hill, and she knew that Snape had to go. They’d have to take him somewhere else as soon as could be arranged, preferably tomorrow, and she would go back to London where she belonged.

====================

Snape’s eyes seemed unwilling to open for a while. He tried hard to drag himself from the dark pit of sleep, but every time he managed pain sang through his body, to the very tips of his fingers and toes. Finally he was able to wake, his right hand reaching down and pushing at the edge of the sofa, trying to get some leverage to sit himself up. It was no use, however, his body still seemed like the deadweight it had always been, he had to slump back against the arm of the sofa again. Crampiddle came over, leaning down so that he could hear what the Professor had to say.

“God!” Severus said in a harsh gasp, sounding half way between a prayer and a curse. Then he muttered quietly. “It hurts so much.”

“It can sometimes take up to thirty six hours for a bezoar to fully counteract the effects of some venoms,” the healer explained quickly. “I believe the pain you feel is the last of it being expelled from your body. Probably from the musculature, which has been significantly damaged due to years of misuse, and is therefore slower to recover – but I don’t think this intense pain will persist for longer than another day or so. Then will come the more monotonous task of growing your muscles back, which will be far from comfortable for you, and could take several months.”

Severus stared at the man with his mouth open slightly, his breathing laboured in pain and surprise.

“I’m sorry to tell you so bluntly, but you may as well know the full picture as not. Are you alright?” He asked a little hesitantly.

“I’ll have to be, won’t I?” Severus said bitterly, almost spitting out the words. He sighed then and shook his head, then spoke more calmly. “Would you help me sit up?”

“Have some of this first,” the healer replied, giving him another dose of the numbing solution. Then he helped to raise the thin frame of a man, with Minerva’s help and quick provision of some pillows, so that he was sat up straighter, his legs still up while his back leant against the sofa arm.

“You’ll have to think about where you want you go,” Crampiddle said then, pulling the armchair forward so that he was more level with Minerva’s small seat.

“Go?” Severus barked, his mind not following for a moment.

“Well, you can obviously come back to Hogwarts, at any time,” Minerva said then, a little rushed in her excitement. “We would love to have you back, and Poppy would be more than capable in overseeing any – treatment that you might require. And of course you could always go to St. Mungos,” she added, but in a clipped tone.

“You think I should be incarcerated in an infirmary?” He asked with not a little incredulity.

“You heard what Mac said,” Minera almost hissed. “It could be months before you can even walk again, Severus. You need care, and Hogwarts is the best place to get it,” she finished, with a nod and tone of finality which seemed to suggest an end to the matter.

“As much as you might be comfortable at Hogwarts, you really mustn’t discount Mungo’s,” Crampiddle interjected, obviously hoping the matter was not quite ended. “They really are more equipped to cope with any complications which may arise on your road to recovery. Poppy is an excellent healer,” he assured. “But there would be a team of people on hand to help you in London, and – of course – the opportunity to do research into such an unusual case as yours would probably hasten your getting better considerably,” the old healer finished.

Severus sighed, and closed his eyes again for a moment. Neither person had presented a particularly attractive offer – on the one hand being mollycoddled by two or possibly more interfering old witches while being groomed into returning to a teaching position which he mostly despised, on the other the prospect of spending over two months as the unwitting guinea-pig to a horde of ministry nitwits and quack-healers.

He thought he had escaped the prison that was a sickbed, thought he had left it behind with the dirty ceiling tiles and bleeping machines, far away in a place he would never return to in either person or in his thoughts. Granger and her associates had whisked him away from that unmentionable hell – only to shut him up in some sort of magical alternative? He opened his eyes again, looking towards Minerva and Crampiddle with a level and intimidating gaze, then he turned his head away and nearly cried. Not because of his situation, but because he suddenly saw the sky.

The sofa was flush against the wall and the window-ledge was rather high, so it was the sky and nothing but the sky which he could see through the paved glass, as he looked to his left and up. Big and blue and wonderful, with the dark milkiness that comes only at the end of a warm summer’s day, and in the very corner of the small part which he could see there were saffron clouds surrounded with golden glow. He felt an aching in his heart that was rare and exquisite, when he saw a group of swifts dart high above he held his breath until his chest burned, he had missed the sight of such common and extraordinary things more than he could have guessed.

“Can I have the window open?” He asked quietly, working his throat to get the words out.

Minerva leant over him and pulled down at the old catch, and the window sung open, letting in a tumble of fresh air and smells so different to the city – a hundred thousand tiny smells which made a summer’s evening in the countryside. In his mind he saw it all, the rustling trees with deep and earthy woodland scents, the heady scents of lavenders and roses and countless other rainbow blooms, from posies and pansies to tiny wild-flowers. He could smell grass and cows, he remembered what it was to run through fields of wheat with childish abandon, and stand beneath the shaded shelter of an ancient oak.

“Thank you,” he breathed.

The choice was simple: he would take neither option. There was no way he could endure being trapped in a room again, not now, not after smelling the summer and seeing the sky. It made him forget about the pain, and everything else, while at the same time reaffirming a life unlived out there that was waiting for him. He had no idea what it was that he was actually going to do, having no other place to go as far as he was aware, since hadn’t event an inkling as to what any of his circumstances were whatsoever. Until he knew more, he would simply have to delay. His eyes took one more sweeping look at the dimming sky, then turned back to the other two people in the room.

“Can a take a while to think about it?” he asked.

“Of course,” Crampiddle said. “That is a wise decision.”

A rattling sound came from the hallway, quite loud and strange in the empty house, and it took a moment to realise it was the door being opened. Sure enough, after only a moment, Granger came into the room. Her face was wrinkled into a deep frown, her hair and clothes ruffled with the smell of the wind still on them, and she stopped short in surprise when she saw him.

“You’re awake,” she said simply.

“So you see,” he said just as briefly, turning back to the older witch and his previous train of thought. She sat down next to McGonagall and stared at him, thankfully saying nothing else.

He had been afraid that they would begin questioning him right away, demanding to know all about the gaps that they had in their stories, Granger in particular seemed to be hovering on the edge of her seat in anticipation of answers. But Minerva did not let anyone ask him questions, and listened to the questions which he asked himself, answering them the best that she could. The box of paltry belongings was revealed to him and he cast a cursory glance over it, ashamed as many would be of a life reduced down to just a few books and clothes, but the folder of papers held some interest for him at least. He sat silently, the open pages in his lap, ignoring the presence of everyone else as he slowly leafed through the documents.

When he finally glanced up again the room was empty and dark, aside from a lap which had been turned on at his shoulder without his noticing, allowing him to read into the night.

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