You Know What They Say about Necessity...

A/N: Thanks to my reviewers! Hope you enjoy this section. "Pleasant Valley Sunday" is a song by the Monkees.
Disclaimer: JKR owns it all. I'm not making a cent, shilling, or knut from this.

Hermione flopped down into a chair in the living room and buried her face in her hands, allowing herself the luxury of pure frustration for a moment.

Six hours.

They had only been at the cottage for six hours, and already there had been two shouting matches (Professor Snape and Harry, and said professor and herself), three slammed doors (the same door, slammed shut by each of them), and more names and insults than she wanted to count (again, all three of them). If you added the ages that each of them was acting and divided by three, it would be a lower number than she need count on both hands.

How had it gotten out of control so quickly? she asked herself as she headed into the kitchen to make a late lunch. She considered the facts. Snape couldn’t walk right now, even with crutches: it would probably be about six weeks before he’d be ready for partial weight bearing. Something about “bridging callus” forming first. Both his legs had single fractures: apparently this was better than a complete fracture or open fracture. Hermione had read all of this after packing, to better understand what he’d be facing. He’d made one visit already to a muggle orthopedist, Harry said, and both his legs were encased in plastic casts from his ankles to just above his knees. He had a wheelchair, which he’d have to use until he was ready to put weight on his legs. In retrospect the wheelchair was indirectly what had started the first row…

“I do not need your help, Potter!” Snape had shouted at Harry. “I am quite capable of getting myself indoors even if I am trapped in this barbaric muggle monstrosity!”

“Fine,” Harry had retorted. “Then go to it.”

But for all that the Potions Master had wanted to wheel himself up the ramp, pain and exhaustion had rendered it impossible. Hermione moved up to grasp the handles of the chair and he turned his drugged yet glittering eyes on her.

“Did I not just say I need no help, Miss Granger? Have you taken leave of your understanding of the English language?”

“No, sir,” she said quietly. “But I’ll not allow you to do yourself further strain just to placate your ego.”

And as he had stared at her, livid, she’d pushed him on up, Harry following behind with their bags.

The cottage itself was perfect: cozy without being tacky or over cluttered. Professor Snape was settled in the master bedroom at the end of a short corridor, and Harry and Hermione were just a bit down the hall, each with their own room and a large bathroom in between. There was a living room, kitchen, dining room, and library, as well as a utility room that held a washer and dryer. Dumbledore had not been exaggerating when he said it would be a modern muggle home: there was a jet range, a refrigerator, a microwave, a dishwasher, and a coffeepot in the kitchen. The living room housed a telly and video disc player and the library had a computer.

Hermione and Harry’s bedrooms were both done in maroon and gold. Each had a queen size bed, dresser, closet, and a small entertainment center with a telly and stereo. As she glanced around her temporary quarters admiringly, Harry was taking the professor’s belongings into his bedroom.

“I can put my things away myself, Potter. I don’t need you making a mess of my bedroom. Though I suppose I should be grateful that you managed not to drop anything with those clumsy hands of yours.”

There was a faint “Hmph!” on Harry’s part. “Suit yourself, professor. I certainly can find something else to do. But are you sure…”

“Have you and Miss Granger both fallen deaf, Mister Potter? Surely even your inadequate eyes can see that everything has been adjusted so that I might reach it from this chair. If I need you—and I cannot imagine that ever being the case—I will call you. Now kindly remove yourself and let me have some peace!”

“Gladly!” Hermione heard Harry slam the door as he stormed out. She sighed.

Harry stomped into her room. “Can you believe him? Already with the insults! The only bright spot with it is he can’t take points away from graduates. Hey, is my room like this, too?” he asked, looking around him for the first time.

She nodded, her mood elevating slightly as he broke into a big smile.

“Wicked!” Harry exclaimed. “Dumbledore sure set us up large, didn’t he?”

Hermione nodded again, foreseeing Harry being glued to the telly watching all manner of muggle sports in the near future. For her part, she was looking forward to checking out what books were in the library. Before she had time to contemplate it further, Professor Snape instigated verbal sparring match number two:

“Miss Granger! Come here this instant!”

Harry gave her a sympathetic look before heading for his room to unpack. Hermione schooled her face into calm helpfulness and went into Snape’s room. “Yes, professor?”

He was parked in front of a long wooden bureau, which Dumbledore had obviously transfigured so that Snape could reach several drawers easily from his wheelchair. His room was done in black and forest green. There was no telly, though a small stereo rested on one corner of a large writing desk. The closet had no doors and was more than big enough for him to wheel into. A bookshelf was in one corner near an overstuffed black leather chair.

“Miss Granger… would you kindly pay attention to me? Your attention span seems to have shortened through years of associating with Potter and Weasley.”

She started. “Sorry, sir. Yes, sir?”

“As I was saying, Miss Granger…” he scowled and pointed at an open bureau drawer. “You will do me the courtesy of removing… that.”

Confused, Hermione peered into the drawer, then smiled. “Crookshanks! I’d wondered where he’d went.”

“Yes, well, now you know,” Snape sneered. “Remove him at once, Miss Granger. I have no wish to be infested with fleas for the duration of this arrangement.”

“He doesn’t have fleas,” she retorted, scooping the kneazle up into her arms. He gave a contented purr. “He’s not just some ordinary cat, you know.”

“I don’t care if he is the King of the Beasts, I want him out of here!” Snape retorted.

“Certainly!” she said, her voice rising in volume to meet his own despite her earlier resolve.

“And make sure he stays out of here. Though I could do with a new pair of house slippers, orange is not a color I care for,” he said.

Hermione gave him a steely glare. “Of course not. Hatefulness is your only good shade.” And she swept out, echoing Harry’s earlier gesture of slamming the door behind her.

She had taken no more than five steps when he jerked his door open.

“And I’ll thank BOTH of you to stop sing ing my door!”

Whereupon he slammed it shut again himself.

Hermione went into her bedroom, all the while muttering under her breath: “I will not hex Professor Snape. I will not hex Professor Snape.”

“You couldn’t even if you wanted to,” Harry reminded her from her bed.

She shook her head. “Did you hear all that?”

He nodded. “Too bad we can’t put a silencing charm on his room. Or him.”

She dropped beside him with a sigh, releasing Crookshanks, who curled up on a pillow. “I need a nap,” she muttered.

He nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll keep an ear on Snape.”

“Don’t you mean an eye?” Hermione asked.

“Not if I can help it,” Harry smirked.

She couldn’t help but grin as he brushed his lips to her cheek and left.

Now it was several hours later and she was feeling at a loss. She remembered earlier how she’d thought she would probably rather be with a Dementor. Now she was nearly sure of it. Well. There was nothing to be done for it. Severus Snape was hurt and needed care, even if the bat didn’t want to admit it. She couldn’t abandon him. She would simply have to try and get a better hold of her temper.

A loud crash followed by a thud from Snape’s room sent her sprinting down the hall, Harry right behind her. Not thinking of knocking in her concern, she opened his door. “Professor! Are you all right?”

She glimpsed him lying on the floor beside the bed, panting and shaking. “Get out!” he snarled.

She shook her head, turning to Harry. “I’ll handle this,” she whispered.

He debated it for a second, then nodded. “Yell if you need me,” he whispered. “For anything.” And he left.

She went in, closing the door behind her. “I told you—“ Snape began, but she cut him off.

“And *I* told Professor Dumbledore I’d look after yYou You obviously fell. Let me help you.”

“I don’t want your help!” he nearly screamed.

“But you need it, you git,” she snapped. “Now you have a choice. Either you can let me help you, or you can stay on the floor all day. What will it be, sir?”

As suddenly as the rage came over him, it left. Snape stared at her, and she could see the pain and helplessness in his black eyes. “You need something, you’re obviously in agony,” she whispered.

He shook his head fiercely. “I don’t want more muggle drugs.”

“You’d rather be in pain?”

“I’ve had pain before.”

“But not like this.”

“Do you think Crucio is a walk in the park, Miss Granger?” he asked bitterly.

She ignored the remark. “Please let me help you.”

For a moment she thought he might still refuse out of spite if nothing else. But reality overcame his anger and he nodded. “What were you trying to do?” she asked as she struggled to lift him into the chair without putting weight on his legs. She almost lost her grip on him and gasped. “I need Harry’s help.”

“No.”

“You're more than I can lift: I'll drop you!” she hissed.

“Then drop me. That would be preferable to getting help from a Potter.”

“Oh, for goodness sake!” she spat, trembling with the effort of lowering him back to the floor. “You need to build a bridge and get over it.”

He looked furious, but before he could start in again she called to Harry.

He came in, took one look at them, and almost bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“If you don’t mind?” Snape hissed.

“Sorry,” Harry gasped. He bent down and put an arm under Snape, lifting him easily into the chair. “There you go, sir.”

“Very good, Mister Potter. To thank you, I will allow you to leave my presence.”

Harry winked at Hermione on his way out.

She sighed. Before Snape could start in on her she asked: “Now, what were you trying to do before you fell?”

He sighed. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Oh.” She swallowed. “Well, can you manage from here?”

He seemed to be looking at anything but her. “At this rate, probably not.”

Hermione drew a deep breath. “All right, then. Again, you have a choice. I can help you, or Harry can help you. Which would you prefer?”

“Caught between the Scylla and Charybdis,” he murmured.

She smiled faintly. “I hardly think either of us is as bad as all that, professor. After all, I got my teeth fixed fourth year.”

He stared at her in something close to astonishment. Then he replied: “Indeed, Miss Granger. Then perhaps you’ll be good enough to guide Ulysses to the lavatory?”

“Don’t you mean Odysseus, sir?”

He frowned slightly, his eyes sliding sideways. “Of course.”

She was unsettled by his mistake and the thought of assisting him this way, but she wasn’t about to let him see that. So she smiled again. “Yes, of course I’ll help you.”