All Wounds Heal In Time

Apologies for being such a sporadic uploader, I wish I were organised enough to have regular days but you just have to take it as it comes I\'m afraid! Thank you so very much for reading, please consider reviewing or rating it makes me write MOAR! It won\'t be long til the next chappie - it\'s almost finished already ;) But in the meantime I hope you enjoy. ~ Love Marie



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MaggieCate: I had some time off work recently so I could write faster, unfortunately I am back now so writing will be a wee bit slower. But still regular now I have my flow back, I hope! :D Thank you so much for reviewing, I am glad you don\'t want to throw stuff at my Hermione - that really means a lot to me.



Voracious Reader: Why thank you :) I\'m glad you liked it, thank you so much for your reviews, and for reading the yarn in the first place!



Morgana: Thanks so much for taking the time to review. I\'m so pleased you liked my story, and I still think Obama is just so very good! I hope you enjoy this chapter :)











~Day Ten~



What was it like to be on fire without the pain? Severus never thought that he would know the answer to that question, but the sensation was all too clear in his mind now. Every inch of him itched, burning, searing – not hurting but awake and aware. The clothes he wore scratched at his new-felt skin, the cotton felt like sacking, rough and harsh against his tender nerves. He kept breathing, in and out, but other than that he tried not to move the slightest inch.



Macintyre Crampiddle was suddenly in his vision, hovering over him as he had done the night before.



“What is it now?” Severus asked desperately.



“What do you feel?” Crampiddle replied with a question, using his wand to shine a bright light in his eyes.



“Everything!” Severus panted, swallowing hard. “Dear God, my skin! Every inch is itching.”



“You can feel your legs?” Crampiddle asked him quickly.



“Yes,” he said.



“There’s no pain?” Mac stood up again.



“No!” Severus almost shouted, driven to distraction by the pounding sensations and the healer’s persistent questioning. “I can just – feel,” he added.



“Don’t be alarmed,” Crampiddle reassured him, but the younger man ground his teeth together in frustration. He wasn’t alarmed, but it was impossible to ignore every single nerve, screaming as they were.



“I expected a reaction like this. You had no feeling in most of your body while you were in the hospital, is that not so?” The healer began his questioning again, though Severus could do little more than nod quickly. “The venom from the snake bite will have paralysed your central nervous system. Now that the venom has been extracted – and you are no longer distracted by the pain of the bezoar-drawing – the feeling in your body is returning. I’ve don’t doubt it is a rather peculiar sensation, but there’s not much I can do to help you. If I gave you a numbing solution now you would still have to toughen up your nerves at a later date. Best to get it over with.”



“Will you be the one toughening me up?” Severus muttered as the old man cast a spell around his arm which tightened like a belt and took his blood-pressure. The squeezing band felt like it was crushing his arm.



“You still have your old humour!” Mac remarked with a twinkle in his old eyes. “That’s good. You’ll need it. But it will be the molaciara procipiter that toughens you up, hopefully. Eventually, anyway.”



The healer cast a few more spells in silence, making a note of his results on a small roll of parchment, then he put his wand away and sat in the red arm chair opposite.



“I would like to do some further tests on you, if you wouldn’t mind. I think it’s important to keep track of your continued recovery and to do so thoroughly it would help if I could measure the current strength of your reactions. Then, later on, we will be able to compare results. Would you mind?”



“I doubt I could stop you, Mac,” Severus said. “But I don’t mind.”



“When you are at St. Mungos it will be much easier to help your recovery,” Crampiddle said then.



“You mean, ‘if’,” Severus told him quietly, his eyes narrowing dangerously.



“Of course, ‘if’,” the healer replied without paying much attention, waving the thought away with a sweeping gesture while the other hand snapped his case shut and grabbed the worn handle. “I’ll need to get some equipment before we can begin. I should be back by eleven and we’ll start right away.” Crampiddle put on his coat and hat, pausing a moment to tug the rim firmly onto his head. “In the mean time try not to move too much, or at all if you can help it, and drink plenty of water.”



Severus sighed in frustration but jerked his head to acknowledge his assent. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the roaring sensation of his nerves, his legs, torso and left arm stinging with rabid and intense pins-and-needles. Mac stood in front of the fireplace and took a handful of floo powder from the jar that Arthur had left on the mantlepiece. Before he threw it in, he turned to face Severus again and spoke.



“Oh, and by the way, I would like to invite Miss Granger to observe your tests as well. I assume you don’t mind?” He asked with a innocently blank face. Severus’ eyes flew open and he stared at the older man.



“Granger? Why on earth do you want her there?”



“I may need assistance,” the healer replied simply. “Plus I’m sure she would appreciate the insight. She will ultimately have to write a report about your recovery,” he reminded the ex-Professor.



Severus let out another long sigh, his eyes drooping closed again, and Crampiddle hovered for a second or two while he waited for the answer.



“Severus?” he said quietly.



“Fine!” the younger man snapped, his eyes snapping open. “Fine,” he said again with a bit decorum. “If Miss Granger wants to observe you poking and prodding me, she can.”



“How courteous of you!” Mac said with playful sarcasm. Snape only scowled in return. Crampiddle chuckled. “See you in an hour, then,” he said.



“Is Minerva here?” Snape called out suddenly, catching him before he left.



“She went home to sleep, on my orders,” Mac replied, the floo powder pouring steadily from his hand like sand in an egg-timer. “No doubt she will be back before – well speak of the devil!” Crampiddle finished with an astonished chuckle, since the grey-haired witch had just appeared in a flash of green before him. “Severus would like a word with you, I think, my dear Minerva. I’ll be back in a while. Toodle-pip!” He tipped his hat stylishly and stepped into the fireplace, somehow ushering the surprised McGonagall out at the same time. Then with a word he was gone.



Severus ground his teeth together, trying hard not to shout out loud. It wasn’t painful in the usual sense, but the constant singing of his skin made him want to cry out, and he was not sure wether he would scream or laugh. He always hated pins-and-needles, and this was far worse that anything like it he had ever felt before.



He brought his right hand up and pinched the bridge of his nose, a nervous gesture he realised he was doing often lately. The continuous barrage of feeling was distracting him, and he needed to think. Neither Crampiddle nor Minerva would let the matter of his being moved lie until he had said something to silence them on the subject either way, but he didn’t know what it was he should say. He had nowhere else to go. His home at Spinner’s End had been sold, and though the money from the sale of the property would be reimbursed to him according to the ministry papers he had read, it would be a while before he could find and buy another house of his own. He couldn’t even walk. It would be a while before he could do anything.



Tired. He was so, so tired.



He shifted his weight as much as he could, trying to find relief from the screaming nerves on his back, which apparently thought he was lying on stinging nettles rather than a plain cotton couch. Since he was only able to move his neck and right shoulder slightly, however, it didn’t make much of a difference. He scowled, pinching at his nose again, feeling some apprehension. Granger had done more than her share in trying to free him from his hospital prison, so it was only fair to allow her to work with Mac during his long, tedious recovery. But he wasn’t looking forward to it in the slightest. It would be hard enough to cope with further months of bed-ridden boredom without the meddling interference of an over-zealous Gryffindor.



“How are you, Severus?” Minerva asked, interrupting his runaway thoughts as she cast her usual chair and sat down with poise.



Make that *two* meddling, over-zealous Gryffindors, he thought to himself.



“I can feel again,” he told her. “My legs – I can feel my legs.”



“That’s wonderful – ” she began, but he interrupted her.



“Hardly,” he said. “Imagine pins-and-needles, yes?” He looked towards her and she nodded. “But worse. The worst pins-and-needles you have ever felt. No, worse than that even! Constantly prickling over your whole body!”



As he tried to describe the surreal feeling he couldn’t help but concentrate on it, and when he did the intensity of the alien tingling grew and grew until he was twitching and flinching, his speech to Minvera interspersed with sporadic gasps. “ Ah! A-ha hah,” he said.



“I always quite enjoyed the sensation of pins-and-needles,” the headmistress said then, a thin smile playing on her lips. “When you get to my age, Severus, you take any sensation you can get.”



He tried to scowl at her, but his mind was still fully of the fizzy feeling reaching right to his toes and fingertips, his jaw twitching as he tried not to bellow in his discomfort like an animal.



“If there were any way to switch places with you this minute, Minerva, I would not hesitate.”



“Hmm,” she murmured while her amused look still lingered. “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”



For the second time in twenty-four hours, Severus laughed again. It was nothing more than a dry exhalation of his breath, an almost-silent fleeting sound, but he was surprised at how good it felt to be amused again. Mac Crampiddle had always been a more-than-worthy match for his own particular brand of wry sarcasm, and Minerva wasn’t a bad opponent either, when she was inclined to be. It had been so long since he had laughed with people. Well – *at* people, anyway.



There was something else as well, tugging at the corners of his awareness, trying to get his attention. But he couldn’t quite work out what it was.



“Have you thought any more about coming home to Hogwarts?” McGonagall said then, wasting little time .



He thought about it a little more then. ‘Home’. Obviously Hogwarts was ‘home’ for the headmistress, but had he ever considered it so? Not really – it had been his school, and later his workplace, but the closest to a ‘home’ he had come was the damp and dingy terraced house at Spinner’s End. He turned his head again and stared up towards the open window, his eyes drinking in the sky, a clear blue once again with white billowing clouds sailing across serenely.



“I can’t – ” Severus began, hesitating when the words seemed to get stuck in his throat. His body was still wracked with searing discomfort. He turned back to the old witch, and tried to focus his concentration.



“I can’t go back to Hogwarts, Minerva. Not now – and I’m not sure I could go back later on, either. It’s too – ” he searched for a word in vain. “There are too many memories,” he said instead.



“But Severus,” the headmistress said with some alarm, leaning slightly nearer. “You can’t really mean that. I can understand if you don’t want to go back now, but never? What would you do if you weren’t teaching? You’ll have to earn a living somehow. And I know you enjoyed it.”



“Teaching?” he asked with a sneer. “Being responsible for hoards of snotty-nosed brats, half of whom are arrogant and know-it-all, and the other half just idiots and glory-seekers?” But even as he spoke he remembered Granger’s memories of his lessons, how the sheer amount of knowledge she had taken from him had astounded him, and the other pupils he had met who had been worth teaching.



“You might not see any appeal in your old career,” McGonagall said then, her eyes flashing with anger. “But personally I find it the most rewarding job on earth, so excuse me for not agreeing with you.”



Severus remembered then – too late – that it was her chosen career, and he regretted putting it down quite so frankly. Especially when faced with her particular Scotch fury. It was deep-running, but deadly. And Minerva was an ally that he did not want to lose.



“I’m sorry, Minerva,” he said humbly. “I spoke hastily.”



Something still nagged at him like a child tugging at his sleeve. What was it? The smell of flowers? He glanced up at the window again, but somehow he didn’t think it was to do with the blooms in the gardens, the individual scents of which he had slowly been identifying during his waking hours. Like a ghost it hung at the edge of his consciousness, vague and shimmering.



“It’s alright,” the headmistress told him, her eyes more forgiving now as they stared at his frowning face. “I can’t imagine how stressful this all is for you. I wish you would seriously consider Hogwarts. You would be comfortable there.”



“I don’t doubt that both you and Poppy would take the utmost care of me,” he told her, and it was the truth. “But I can’t go back there now. Not like this.” She tried to interrupt but he put a hand up, his voice dropping to a low tone. “Maybe later,” he said. “But not now.”



“You will take Mac up on his offer, then,” she retorted, her spine stiffening like the tone of her voice as she crossed her arms.



“I didn’t say that,” Severus told her.



“Well you’ll have to go somewhere,” Minerva said then. “Severus,” she leant towards him. “You can’t stay here long.”



His mind was twisting and twirling, trying to follow the conversation while other thoughts battered at the doors of his consciousness. Black shadows creeping in his mind, part of him felt that he should keep them away - whatever they were – while the other part was too inquisitive to not ponder what it was his mind was trying to tell him. He swallowed, and tried to shift his weight again. He turned towards the window once more.



“Where is ‘here’?” He asked, while his eyes took in the sweeping blue vista of sky.



“Miss Granger’s parents’ home,” Minerva reminded him, and he nodded, shadowy memories of the girl telling him so through his sedation surfacing.



“But her parents aren’t here,” he said, still staring up at the window.



“No…” Minerva replied, “Miss Granger is responsible for the house in their absence.” He couldn’t see the witch’s face but he could imagine it, wrinkled into a frown as she spoke. “Severus, you *can’t* stay here,” she repeated more sternly.



“Wouldn’t that be Miss Granger’s decision?” he asked, turning towards the headmistress.



“Technically, but it would be wrong for you to ask her. She has been under a lot of stress due to your recovery – ”



“That’s hardly my fault, is it?” He sneered as he interrupted.

“No,” Minerva said firmly. “But you should still consider the service she has done you. It was not her fault either, and she shouldn’t have to continue to shoulder the burden of your recovery by herself. Also, I don’t think she likes staying here herself anyway. She asked me last night how long it would be until we moved you.”



McGonagall kept her voice low as she talked, she didn’t know where the young witch was and didn’t want her overhearing their discussing her. Severus’ eyes narrowed in consideration as the old witch talked. Granger didn’t like to stay in the house? He wondered why that would be.



“Where are her parents now, Minerva?” He asked quietly.



“During the war, she took it upon herself to cast memory charms on them both, and she sent them away to Australia.” He was staring at her in disbelief but she continued in a whisper. “When the war was over, she was able to find them again, and restore their memory. It was one of the first missions that inspired the formation of the Recovery department at the ministry – the department which rescued you,” she reminded him.



“What happened then?” Severus said impatiently, his voice quiet still but clipped. It was hard not to be distracted by the tingling in his body, still chewing at his nerves, and the new and strange awareness nagging at him.



“I don’t know why, but they went back.”



“To Australia?” She nodded a confirmation.



“It was around the same time that she ended a rather involved relationship, with the younger Mister Weasley. And I believe she was working on a extraordinarily difficult case as well. She took it very hard, or so I believe, I’m afraid I did not see her as much at that time as I would have wished,” she admitted, a look of regret about her.



“I don’t see what her problem is. She can still speak to them, surely? And it is possible to apparate to Australia in less than a few hours, if you plan well enough. She must still see them.”



“I don’t know.” Minerva spoke firmly. “But I have reason to believe that that is not the case.” She looked at him with steady eyes. “Please,” she said then, imploring him. “Try to consider her feelings in the matter. She is very close to them, or was.”



He looked steadily at his old colleague a while more, his fine dark eyebrows drawn together in thought, his eyes sunken and shadowy as they stared at her. He didn’t speak, but he nodded, once.



“I shall make some tea,” the old witch said then, getting to her feet. “Would you like some?” she asked, but he shook his head with a surly expression on his furrowed, thin face. “It’s quite chilly today,” she wrapped her shawl around herself as she spoke. “Will I close the window for you?”



She walked across the room and leant over him, reaching for the handle of the catch on the open window.



“No!” He cried, much louder than he meant to. “No! Leave it open.”



Minerva stepped back.



“I’m sorry, Severus,” she said in concern, her eyes studying his brow, suddenly covered in sweat. “Can I get you anything?”



“No, I’m fine!” He wasn’t quite as loud but still seemed frantic.



“I won’t be long,” she told him. He nodded wildly, a strange sort of forced smile twisting his face like a grimace. She peered at him a moment longer, then left hesitantly.



He swallowed several times, bringing his hand up to his face and rubbing his cheek and eyes roughly, his heart thundering in his chest.



No, no, no! This can’t be, he thought desperately.



He knew now what it was that had been clawing at his attention, the unfamiliar scent and the feeling associated with it, and he breathed in and out erratically in his panic - it was her perfume! He let out a little whimper of dismay at the thought. The scent had tumbled over him as she had leant to close the window and to his absolute horror he had desired her!



Oh, no, no, he thought again, and if it had been possible for him to curl up into a ball of embarrassment he would have done so then without a second thought. Minerva McGonagall! He could weep at the thought, but it was impossible to deny, the startling wave of want that had washed over him had been as overpowering and as unignorable as a hex. What was he thinking? He shook his head from side to side in astonishment and at the immense discomfort he felt at that moment.



He stared up at the window, mercifully still wide open, the sky beginning to look a little heavy-ish and grey. There was a fresh breeze that had picked up and he felt the last whispers of it brush at his hot face, he drew deep breaths of the fresh, cool air through his nose.



I must be going mad, he thought. That’s it, I’m going insane.



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



Three quarters of an hour later, Severus knew at least that he was not mad, but it wouldn’t surprise him if he became so by the end of the day.



Shuddering with horrified remorse and odd fleeting feelings of shame he had sat silently when McGonagall had returned, staring blankly out of the window and resolutely ignoring the smell of her perfume, until the long minutes before Crampiddle’s return had crawled painfully by. His embarrassment was acute, he felt like he was a young boy, the reactions of his out-of-control body making his head spin.



The healer had brought a rush of busyness with him, his swift commencement of diagnostic questioning providing a welcomed distraction for the younger man, and his was able to concentrate with little interruption from his traitorous feelings. When the doctor had suggested that the headmistress might help him with the removal of his shirt and trousers, however, he had felt the blood drain from his face, more grateful than he ever could have known for the reunion with his wand meaning he could undress himself. He made his blanket more substantial too, gathering it around his hips so that he was as covered as he could be with bare legs, arms and torso.



When she had come into the room, though, he knew that it was not his mind but his body that had reacted to Minerva’s perfume. And when he saw Miss Granger, he knew that he did not desire the old headmistress whatsoever.



As different as it had been to the plutonic admiration he had bestowed upon the night nurse and the then anonymous Miss Granger in the white room, the spark of bodily desire he felt towards the old witch was nothing compared to the torrent of lust that came over him when she rushed into the room, her curls swaying as apologised breathlessly for her lateness. The colour of her eyes, the way she smiled, the curve of her hips beneath the rough cotton of her jeans. He eyed them all with obvious admiration, not even thinking to hide his hungry gaze as he stared at her lithe frame, so gracious and virile in its youth. During the last years, while his body had been dead from the neck down and his head had been devoid of self-awareness, his only thoughts towards the fairer sex had been little more than innocent observations. Now that enforced celibacy had been counteracted his thoughts were far from innocent, his mind was running wild as a hormonal teenager at the sweet, summery smell of her perfume – which was infinitely more appealing than Minerva’s in comparison.



Even now, as she sat quietly on the arm chair a few feet away scribbling notes on her parchment, he could not keep his eyes from stealing long glances. He imagined running his hands in her wild hair, the warmth of the skin at her neck, he imagined how she might sound when she was moaning. He felt his cheeks redden, and he hoped that the bundle of blankets at his waist were adequate enough to hide his aching erection, which was so sensitive the cotton of his boxers was almost painful. He tried not to move, but he felt his body twitch and jerk with tiny shudders.



“Come on, man,” Mac barked at him. “I told you to squeeze.”



Severus shook his head to try and clear some of his errant thoughts, staring down at the rubber ball in his right hand, then squeezing it hard like the healer had instructed. Try as he might, though, he could not contain his intense arousal. It plucked at him constantly. He felt a groan of desire in his throat and he let it out before he could stop himself, horrified, avoiding Granger’s gaze resolutely when she looked up from her notes in alarm.



“Does it hurt?” Crampiddle asked quickly, concern on his face.



Severus just shook his head, glad that his outburst seemed to have been misinterpreted, looking at and squeezing the red ball again.



“Good. That’s very good!” the healer cooed then, as if he were teaching a young child.



“Talk to me like that again, old man, and I’ll throttle you one-handed,” Severus muttered, a scowl darkening his hollow face.



From across the room he heard a little “heh,” the smallest of chuckles from Granger. He stared at her again but she did not seem to be mocking him, just looking down at her quill as she wrote, a subtle smile hovering at the corner of her mouth. He felt a smirk come to his own lips, but they soon slipped back into a thin line of determination when he squeezed the rubber ball again, the grip of his long fingers straining as he did so.



“Good,” Crampiddle told him with far less of a patronising tone. “Now squeeze again and just hold that. As long as you can.”



He squeezed again firmly, but not quite so hard as before, watching his knuckles slowly turn white as he held firmly onto the ball and ignored the rattling tingle of his nerves. Vanilla and cherry-blossom tickled at his nose, he felt the swooping stab of sexual desire through to the base of his spine, his dark eyes slowly crept up to gaze across at her again.



She was scribbling hastily and her small smile had gone, he didn’t know what she could possibly be making notes about at this moment, but her eyebrows wrinkled together in fierce concentration. He had seen that look so many times, while she had sat hunched over her desk in silent and serious study, her brilliant mind working at a pace he could sympathise with now he has seen it for himself. He sighed, his grip becoming painful as he continued to squash the rubber ball, a mass of unpleasant thoughts and feelings battling inside him. His nerves continued to scream, his insides twisted painfully with his amorous desires, his head struggling to remain a beacon of sanity in the crazy world of feeling he was trapped in. Granger had been his student, he reminded himself. A self-righteous, rule-breaking, goody-two-shoes, know-it-all, Gryffindor student. The idea of his lusting after her was as laughable as wanting Minerva.



But he did want Granger. He wanted her badly.



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



“Severus!” Crampiddle repeated himself loudly, finally drawing the man’s distracted attention. “You can let go now,” he said, pulling the ball from his relenting grip. Snape cleared his throat and flexed his hand, causing his knuckles to crack.



Hermione watched as the healer moved the red ball to the ex-Professor’s left hand, which had been inactive for nearly half a decade, unlike the right. Mac balanced the ball in the open palm, and then spoke.



“Right then. Squeeze.”



She watched as the her old teacher glared down at the little rubber ball with fierce eyes, his brow beginning to draw into a frown as the seconds passed, while at his side his left arm and hand did not move an inch. She stared at the ball in his open palm, the tips of his long fingers, willing them to move as if she could help him with her thoughts. But there wasn’t even the smallest twitch of movement in the slack limb. Snape sighed loudly.



“Alright,” Crampiddle said, “I know it’s frustrating. Try again?”



It was funny, really, that a little red ball could capture the attention of four grown witches and wizards so absolutely. Snape hadn’t even blinked, his dark eyes staring at the rubber sphere, and next to him Crampiddle, McGonagall and herself sat just as transfixed. Once again she willed his lithe fingers to come to life, and once more they lay still, unclenching. Snape sighed again, a growl of frustration mingled with his long breath, and he grabbed at the ball with his good arm and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall above the enlarged fireplace and bounced, slicing away towards McGonagall sitting quietly on her chair near the back of the room, though she leant calmly forward with feline dexterity and it missed her.



“Oh–kay,” Crampiddle said as he watched the ball roll to a stop on the carpet. “That’s enough of that,” he agreed. “Miss Granger, would you mind assisting me now, please?”



She stood and her legs felt a little shaky, which was unlike her, but she felt a nervous apprehension which she couldn’t quite explain. The professor looked so harmless, gaunt and empty on the cotton sofa, the blanket across his waist seemed to drown him. She didn’t have anything to fear from him, but she still felt butterflies inside as she approached.



“Just stand there,” the healer instructed and pointed vaguely towards the opposite end of the sofa, where Snape’s large feet rested on the arm. Crampiddle was slipping some sort of wooden headband onto the younger man’s brow, it circled his head like a wonky halo, balancing on his deeply-furrowed eyebrows. “Is that too tight?” Mac asked and Snape shook his head quickly.



“Miss Granger is going to stimulate your legs,” the healer explained, moving slightly so that the professor could see him. “I will record the readings from the Dentsy Band. It measures the intensity of your neural reactions and gives us a chart of sorts, which we can study at a later date. Ready?”



“Just get on with it,” Snape muttered, his voice so low that Hermione could hardly hear him.



“Hermione,” Mac said, stepping nearer to her. He held out a fine quill, the nib made from engraved gold, the feather dyed a crimson red. “I generally use my quill,” he explained with a shrug as she took it. “It’s as good as anything. Run the feather down the sides of each leg, as firmly and smoothly as you can, so we can get as accurate a reading as possible. We might need several readings.”



The healer stood the opposite end of the sofa to her, behind Snape’s head, where he had set a small table covered in parchment. He took out another fine quill, though this one was black, and it hovered over the paper. Like a shimmer of heat the finest line of navy magic connected the quill to the Dentsy Band. Mac looked up at her then, and nodded.



She glanced at Snape’s face too, fleetingly before she began, but he was staring in such a strange and intense way she wished that she hadn’t. She bent forward and touched the feather to the leg nearest to her, on the pale skin of his outer-thigh. The moment she did so the entire limb twitched violent, raising up from the cushions, making her jump too in surprise.



“Sorry!” she said quickly, turning to look at the healer. “Sorry,” she repeated, her gaze dropping to the face of her old teacher. He was still staring at her, and it unnerved her. He looked furious.



“Try again,” Mac said kindly.



She did, the gold nib cool beneath her fingers, the tip of the feather fanning out a little as she dragged it along his leg. It twitched again when she began, but it didn’t startle her this time, and she wasn’t surprised when his leg continued to twitch as she ran the feather across his skin.



“Can you feel that, Severus?” Mac asked then, looking down at the quill which was moving erratically across the parchment.



“Yes,” Snape said through gritted teeth. She glanced up at him again, but now his eyes were closed, his sharp jaw twitching.



She looked back towards the feather as she reached his ankle, stopping near the area where the dark hair ended in a sort of line, gently lifting the quill away again.



“Good,” Crampiddle said without looking up. “Keep going.”



She started at his ankle this time, leaning forward a little more so that she could run the feather up his inner leg without hindrance, keeping her eyes resolutely fixed on the tip of the feather as it ran over his bony knee and up along his inner-thigh. An inch away from the edge of the massive, crumpled blanket she stopped, his leg still twitched now and then.



“Now he other one,” Mac murmured, his eyes never leaving the paper and scribbling quill in front of him. She stood at the very end of the sofa so that she could reach his left leg more easily, then re-applied the quill’s feather to his white, almost translucent skin. She didn’t look up at his face again.



“How does that feel?” Crampiddle asked Snape.



“Strange,” his teeth were still gritted as he spoke through them. “Singular. It tickles,” he added, though there was no hint of humour in his voice.



Hermione continued with her appointed task, trying to remember the details so that she could write them up later, though she knew Mac would supply her with comprehensive notes afterwards. When she finished the second side of the second leg the healer gave her no further instructions, so she merely carried on, running the quill methodically along the painfully thin legs. She kept count of her strokes, concentrating on her task, not thinking about how strange it felt to be stroking Professor Snape’s scrawny legs with a feather. He said nothing – unless Mac asked him a question – and she was glad of it. She would be mortified if he had made some sort of sarcastic comment about this whole situation, especially when she couldn’t help thinking about what Dumbledore had believed they – might do, and how little she had felt when he had invaded her thoughts and sneered at her.



She had avoided touching him since he had woken, she had meant what she had said about never letting him into her mind, he had seen more than she would have ever shown him by choice and she wouldn’t let that happen again. She had thought that she found him much less imposing when he had been trapped in the hospital ward, but now – since he had mocked her about the bezoar – and now that he was awake, she realised that he scared her as much as ever. He couldn’t stand up, his body so skeletal his ribs stuck out sharply under the stretched skin of his bare chest, but she was still deathly afraid of him. His power was daunting, despite his withered form, and she knew it.



She couldn’t help but glance up at him then and his gaze met hers, his dark eyes glaring, his stare strange and intense. A chill ran down her spine.



“Use the nib,” Mac said then, breaking her thoughts. She complied, running the sharp metal point gently long the skin. “Can you describe the feeling now?” Crampiddle asked.



“Different,” Snape said. “It feels sharp. Pointed. Cold,” he added.



“That’s really very good,” Mac told him. “You can already identify between sensations. You’re well on your way. I think that should be enough for now,” he said, slipping the wooden band from Snape’s head. “Take another molaciara procipiter,” the healer said, offering him the tablet and a glass of water. The younger man took the medicine.



“Mister Crampiddle, could I have a sample of molaciara procipiter?” Hermione asked. She had the glimmer of an idea forming in her mind, but she would need to do some research and analysis before she could call it a ‘plan’. Mac gave her the sample without question.



“You need to remember to take these at least three times a day.” Crampiddle turned to address Snape. “Five would be ideal, however, if you can manage them without any nausea.”



The healer put a small medicine bottle on the table which he left next to the sofa, the label hand-written, within the professor’s reach. He pulled the armchair near and sat, so that the two men could look at each other face to face. Snape began to dress himself again, using his wand.



“It’s going to take a long time, Severus,” the older man said, quietly and seriously. “I know you, I remember your impatience, your stubbornness. But you can’t rush this, it’s going to be very hard for you, before you’re well again.”



“You can’t kiss it better, Mac?” Snape said then, and Hermione’s head twisted round to stare them both as Mac let out a chuckle.



“Sadly not,” the healer said, but Snape’s gaze slipped sideways, looking over Crampiddle’s shoulder and directly at her.



She felt anger growl deep inside, she gritted her teeth and stared back at him, holding his glare with a scowl that she hoped matched his own. He had said that to mock her, he had made a subtle jab at the mortifying dream he had seen, he had said it to annoy her. She knew it instantly, and the worst part was that it did annoy her, and embarrass her. She felt her cheeks warm.



I shouldn’t let him get to me, she reminded herself as she turned back to her notes. He had been through more than she could imagine. Enough to reduce this snarky, sarcastic man to a hollow shell of a human, begging for death in the middle of the dark and empty night. She had seen for herself the life he had lead, and she remembered the sorrow she had felt for him five long years ago in the pensieve, even during the last week and a half she had come to know more than most the hell he had endured. But despite this she couldn’t help but be wary of him, she wanted to keep as far away from him and the cutting remarks of his which got under her skin so badly, but fate and her work were not allowing such a luxury.



“I am very impressed with the results today none-the-less,” Crampiddle was saying, his authoritative tone capturing her attention. “They are promising, and if you continue to co-operate during your recovery then I don’t think it will be too long before we can address your mobility. But in the mean time, it really is my professional opinion that we move you to St Mungo’s at the earliest opportunity.” The older man glanced behind him then, to the wooden chair where McGonagall was sitting poker-straight. “Or Hogwarts,” he added valiantly.



“Miss Granger,” Snape said then, making her jump. She set her shoulders and stepped nearer, so she was looking down at her old teacher, standing next to Crampiddle in the armchair. She crossed her arms, waiting for him to speak. He gave her a long, strange look before he did so.



“I understand this house is the property of your parents,” he said. “But you yourself have some say over my situation here. Tell me – would it be an inconvenience if I were to stay here?”



He stared at her steadily, his dark eyes boring into hers, hardly blinking as he calmly asked his question. She felt very uneasy.



“Well – no,” she said haltingly. “Not really an inconvenience, really – no.” She finished lamely.



“Then you would let me stay?” He asked.



She hesitated, not knowing what to say, a horrid sinking feeling inside. But she knew what the answer had to be.



“No.” She spoke firmly. “I’m sorry Professor, but you can’t stay here.”



“And would you care to elaborate as to why?” He was suddenly more offensive, his tone sharp and annoyed and very, very familiar.



“Not really,” she snapped back, refusing to let him win in this argument. “Anyway you heard mister Crampiddle, you need proper magical attention, and we can’t provide that here.”



“You managed to before now,” he reminded her.



“Why should I let you stay here?” She felt her temper snap. “You told me you would provide details as to how you got into that muggle hospital, and about how you even survived that night five years ago, and the specifics of the biological reactions to the bezoar charms with Nagini’s vemon in particular – ” she counted the points off angrily on her fingers as she spoke, then put her hands on her hips. “You have not been very helpful, Professor, and I am at a loss as to why I should bend over backwards for you now.”



Once her little rant was over she suddenly felt a little deflated, like the fight had gone from her, she noticed that both Crampiddle and McGonagall were looking at her, open-mouthed. She knew her arguments were sound, however, and stood her ground with her chin tilted up slightly.



Snape still held her gaze, his own steady and unyielding, yet she wouldn’t look away if she could help it. After a few long seconds he blinked and stared down at his right hand, which he flexed in his lap, and he cleared his throat before he spoke.



“You are right,” he told her. “I have not revealed the answers to your questions – yet. I would still be willing to impart with the information,” he drawled, and brought his eyes up to look at her again. “If you would let me stay here, for a few days at least.”



“This isn’t a negotiation,” she said, her voice getter louder in her anger. “You are not in any position to demand anything from me.”



“Hermione – ” Minerva said then, speaking for the first time as she stepped nearer.



“No,” she turned to the headmistress, holding up her hand so that she could say exactly what she wanted to. “There might have been a time when I had to answer to you, but that was a long time ago, and if you hadn’t noticed I’ll point it out to you. We are equal, even, and I owe you absolutely nothing. I meant what I said, you can’t stay here.”



“I will tell you everything. Anything you ask, right now, if only I could stay another night.” There was no ferocity to his stare now, no unfamiliar intensity, only a sort of desperation. “Anything you want,” he repeated.



“You would be willing to submit your memories of that night, July the twenty-second, according to ministry regulations – so that officials can view them in a pensieve?” she asked him.



“Of course,” he muttered. “I would have done so, anyway. I’ll begin as soon as a pensieve can be provided.”



“Can we take the large one, from your office?” Hermione asked McGonagall.



“Yes, of course,” she replied. “But do you really think it needs to be done now?” The old woman cast a glance towards the withered man lying on the sofa, and when the younger girl followed her gaze she saw him as he really was. Ill, frail, not threatening at all.



“If you want to wait until you feel better – ” she started.



“No, Miss Granger. I feel well enough,” his teeth were still gritted, though. “And once I have finished we will perhaps be on a more even footing, when it comes to negotiating.” He looked at her directly. “As to whether or not I can stay here.”



A few more lengthy seconds passed as she looked down at his glaring face.



“Perhaps,” she said.



She turned away then, grabbing at her notes and collecting them together hastily, trying to be as careful as possible as she quickly stuffed them into her bag. If Snape wanted to stay so badly he could, but she didn’t have to, and she wanted to be as far away as possible suddenly.



“I have to go to the office for a while,” she said as she swung her bag onto her shoulder. “Will you be able to send for the pensieve?” She asked Minerva, who reassured her that she would. “I won’t be very long,” she said, and she looked back towards the chintz sofa. He was turned away, looking up at the open window. As she made for the door, Crampiddle accosted her quickly.



“Thank you for your help today,” he told her. “I will get a copy of the results to you as soon as I have them,” he added.



“Thank you,” she said, before quickly leaving the room.



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



Severus didn’t know how long she was gone for, or even wether she had returned, and wouldn’t know until she came back into the cosy living room. It was certainly much nicer than his previous cell, the difference between the clinical hospital room and this tastefully decorated reception room were stark, but he found it strange that he still knew nothing that occurred outside the four walls – a state of affairs that was riling to someone who had previously endeavoured to know everything.



He had been able to have a few minutes of private discussion with Mac once Granger and Minerva had left for a while, and he was sure his face must have been crimson as he described the embarrassingly intense arousal, how he felt so out of control.



“It’s perfectly normal,” Crampiddle had told him. The old refrain.



“And what am I supposed to do about it?” He had sneered in his discomfort. Crampiddle had let out a loud laugh.



“Do you want me to draw you a picture, Severus?” He had bellowed like a sealion before quietening his voice again. “Your right arm is still good to go, is it not?”



Severus had chucked then, a smile twisting his lips as he shook his head in embarrassment and rubbed at his eyes with the afore-mentioned hand, amusingly shocked by the healers frankness. He laughed later too, while he was alone in the growing darkness of evening, when he remembered the way Mac’s eyebrows had waggled and his annoyingly infectious laugh.



“Won’t I go blind?” Severus had asked him in retort.



“Depends what you think about, I suppose,” Mac had chuckled, and wiped a tear from the corner of his eyed.



He laughed again at the memory, not really making any sound as his body shook a little, his laugh was almost silent. He tipped his head back for a while, leaning it on the cushions behind him, sighing at the relief it brought to his aching shoulders.



He knew what he would think about, while her perfume still lingered in the room, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it did send him blind. She was a student – a young girl – years younger than he was. He was, quite possibly, a perverted old man. Or at least he would be, if he gave into the intense urge he felt, and let his hand drift just a bit further down his body. But he didn’t want to do that, he had never wanted to do that, really. He had always managed to control himself to every extent, and he would consider himself less of a wizard if he didn’t control himself now, no matter how hard it was.



It was very hard.



He sighed, reaching for his wand, casting a spell that made his body lighter for a few minutes – long enough for him to drag himself up a little with his good hand. When he was sitting upright he pulled the small table nearer and looked down into the empty stone basin. He would have to focus when extracting his memories, he didn’t want any of his untoward thoughts slipping in accidentally, especially since he wasn’t sure that he would have the mental strength to watch that night through again once it was extracted. He didn’t want to make any mistakes. He sat for a few minutes, in serious concentration, the pulled a silver thread of memory from his temple and deposited it into the basin. In time he did it again.



He was still collating the memories together when she finally returned, turning on the electric light when she entered, and it wasn’t til then that he realised how dark it had become. It must have been late in the day. He didn’t say anything, nor did he look at her, but he took a few moments to get used to scent of her perfume again before he resumed with his extractions. Carefully he drew out the details as he remembered them.



She sat down slowly, sinking back into the red armchair, and she was quiet as she watched him for a few minutes. When she didn’t say anything, he found his concentration wearing thinner and thinner, and he turned to look at her, finally.



“Can I do anything to help?” she asked, and he knew instantly that she was in earnest.



If only she knew, he thought quickly. If only she knew what she could do to help me now. His body was roaring with want for her, he couldn’t help but imagine the feel of her hair and her skin under her hands, but once more he tried to push these thoughts far into the back of his mind. He tried to concentrate on business.



“You could help me,” he admitted, and he cleared his throat because his voice came out strangled. “You could do something to help me greatly,” he said.



“I would like to help you,” she said.



“Let me stay then,” he asked rather rudely. “Please,” he added.



She stood and gawped at him like she had done earlier. Well, ‘gawped’ was really unfair, since she had the stoniest glare on her face it did unsettle him a little. She wasn’t like a student at all any more, he could see it in that stony glare. She was assessing her advantages in the situation. And it was likely that she wouldn’t find very many.



“I will seriously consider it,” she said at length, vaguely. Then, “I promise.”



He supposed it was the best he could hope for, for now.



“Thank you,” he told her. “I might be a while still,” he gestured to the pensieve before him.



“Take as long as you need,” she said as she left.



He watched her go, his desire acute.



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



She had gone back to the offices of the Recovery department, but Dumbledore still had not appeared, and her secretary seemed to have gone missing too. She couldn’t seem to find anyone who could tell her what had happened to either of them, or where her messages were, or what was going on in other areas of the department. Rather than feeling comforted by the business of the office, she felt stifled by it, rather sick and out of the loop. She hadn’t stayed as long as she thought she would.



She did think about going back to Grimmauld Place as well, but she thought that was probably futile as well, since George tended to be either out or asleep during the day. In the end she had gone back to the farmhouse and directly to her room, reading through her notes and making many more, and beginning a few analysing spells on the samples of molaciara procipiter which Mac had given to her. She didn’t know what she thought about Snape wanting to stay, and she didn’t know what her decision would be yet, she would a wait a while before she decided.



It was nearly midnight when a knock at the door broke her concentration, she glanced at her watched as she asked who it was, and McGonagall’s soft voice came through the door.



“Everything’s ready downstairs, if you’d like to come down?” she said.



“I’ll be right there,” Hermione replied, stepping down off the bed and rushing to the landing.



When she got to the living room, two ministry wizards were just approaching the pensieve, dipping their hands in and vanishing inside as she watched. Crampiddle followed and Harris went in after him. Minerva stepped towards the stone bowl on the small table.



“See you in a moment,” she said, and dipped her hand in.



“Are you watching, too?” Hermione asked her old professor, looking over the basin of swirling silver to his drawn face.



“Do you want me to?” He asked in return, staring at her with his dark eyes.



That he had asked her surprised her, but she pleased that he had asked her, too.



“Yes,” she said simply.



They both reached their hands forward at the same time, fingertips touching the silvery surface on opposite sides of the stone vessel, and Hermione felt herself sink into the enveloping world of memory.



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