All Wounds Heal In Time

Thank you guys for sticking with me during Hermione’s wonderings, I really wanted to add some more beef, you know? Anyway I know you were all itching to get back to Severus so that’s just where we’re going. This is an epic day, and I have split it up ‘cause I’m mean! Haha! But I am cracking on with the other parts as we speak, it won’t be long til they’re up. Thank you very much for any reviews, I really appreciate them. Now I’ve got to get back to typing, enjoy all! ~ Love, Marie.


~Day Seven – Part One~

It was definitely talking. George was talking to somebody downstairs.

Hermione gently shut the door to her room again, softly so the sound wouldn’t echo down to the kitchen. She rubbed her head, it was thumping. It seemed like a brass band was playing deep inside her skull, disrupting all her trains of thought almost before they began. It was rare that she suffered a hangover quite as bad as this, and she wasn’t used to the draining feeling. It was to be expected, though. She thought she remembered absinthe being part of the previous night’s escapades.

But she and George had definitely walked home together, it wasn’t a girl from the party who he was entertaining downstairs. She didn’t have a clue who it might be. She wanted to go down and prepare some breakfast, but a girl visiting George could be an embarrassing situation to walk into. She walked to her bedside table, checking the time on her watch which she had removed for the night. She saw with horror that it was nearly one in the afternoon.

She was aghast. The number of times that she had stayed in bed for such a time she could count on one hand, and those had been at times when she was ill. This was a laziness she disliked, but she reasoned that her body probably needed it, having been deprived of sleep for much of the last week.

She decided to get dressed properly rather than going downstairs in her pyjamas as she had planned, so she spent a few moment getting ready. Once that was done, she headed downstairs and got a surprise when she entered the kitchen.

Sitting at the table with George was Mrs. McGonagall.

The older woman saw her come through the door and was instantly on her feet, striding over to her former pupil and pulling her into a hug.

“Miss Granger,” she said in her lilting Scottish accent. “How lovely to see you again.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Headmistress,” she replied, but her voice was thick. She put a hand to her aching head.

“Another one feeling the aftermath of the demon drink, eh?” the professor screeched at her, ginning from ear to ear. “Aye, George told me of your escapades last night. They sound very impressive.”

“Were they?” Hermione asked as she turned to face George. “Well you’ll have to remind me later. I can’t remember a blessed thing.”

Minerva McGonagall laughed again as she sat at the table, Hermione following her, pulling up a chair and sliding it under herself as she sat gingerly, wincing at the sound of the chair-legs scraping. She felt quite fuzzy and tingly, like she wasn’t quite awake yet. Her head was thumping. She smacked her lips, her mouth feeling dry and sticky. Her eyes blearily made their way to George’s opposite, and he flashed her a dazzling smile and a hearty wink. He looked sickeningly chirpy and awake, she scowled at his merriment and he laughed at her a little. Hermione’s eyes were suddenly drawn to a glass that had appeared at her elbow. Thick red liquid clogged at the glass and around the stick of celery which was floating forlornly in the centre.

“Bloody Mary,” Professor McGonagall said in explanation, although Hermione knew perfectly well what it was. There had been many times when she had drunk the Headmistress’s magical hangover cure. She downed it in a few gulps, and instantly began to feel better.

Hermione smiled at her old year head, saying “Thank you, that does feel much better. You must tell me what the key ingredient is one day, there must be something in there which would be of benefit to the whole of the recovery team.”

“I’ve told you before there’s nothing more magical than Worcestershire sauce. Some housewives’ cures work just as well. Tried and tested,” the witch said then, with a wink.

“Anyway,” McGonagall continued, folding her hands neatly together in front of herself. “Tell me what exactly has been going on. I had a very pleasant meeting with Dumbledore last night and he explained I should hasten here as soon as I could following your request, so here I am.” The older woman leant back in her chair, crossing her arms. “I was told I would find it of particular interest.”

Hermione sat for a few moment, collating together the memories of the last week together in her mind before she spoke. So much had seemed to happen, she wanted to make sure that she did not omit any fact or piece of research she had undertaken, any of which might be vital. Her notebook with all the notes she had made on the case was upstairs, and she ran to fetch it before she began her tale. Once she had started, she continued for a while, George sitting quietly mostly, listening intently despite having heard most of Hermione’s story previously. Every now or then, Mrs. McGonagall or Hermione would make a round of tea.

Hermione told of the room, his body. Every detailed note of the attempts she had initially made in order to try and wake him, the further attempts she had made to initiate some sort of reaction at all in his wasted and stringy form. In the course of her recounting Hermione could not help confessing more than just her professional problems to the kindly and familiar face at the table with her. The woman had been a sort of surrogate mother to her during her schooldays, always a sympathetic ear to the troubles of a bookish and awkward teen, and now despite being years older, Hermione still felt her troubles being slowly drawn out of her like the ooze from a lanced boil, her loneliness and grief surfacing almost against her will.

George must have found the presence of the Headmistress similarly soothing since he also admitted his low feelings of late. The photograph was duly shown, and Minerva shed a few tears herself to see the happy faces of the group in front of her. She shook her head and muttered, “Oh, Albus.” George and Hermione glanced at each other.

Finally, after telling of afternoon she had spent on the luscious hillside with Dumbledore, and the ensuing night of ‘relaxation’ and conversation as to their next move, Hermione had finished.

“So there it is,” she concluded. “My NEWTs never wore me out as the last week has done. I don’t even know how I feel about the whole thing any more. I feel that for the first time in my life, I’d like to just quit.”

The three Gryffindors sat for some time in silence. Hermione pondered over the weight of her last sentence. She knew it had probably shocked her friend and teacher to hear her talk of quitting, she knew how uncharacteristic it must have sounded. She looked over at the Headmistress, who was sitting with her head tilted slightly forward, her eyes focused on her clasped hands. The seconds dragged on, still there was silence.

Minerva McGonagall’s shoulders began to shake, her head lolling slightly as her body rose and fell. Hermione thought for a horrible moment that the older woman was crying, but was shocked still to see that in fact the Headmistress was laughing, her wrinkled hand coming up to lay across her soft face as her eyes creased and twinkled.

“I’m sorry, dear,” the older woman said, taking a handkerchief from her sleeve and using a corner of it to pat her eyes. “I shouldn’t be laughing at such a time, but this really is most fortunate. Did you know Professor Vymes is giving up the Potions job already? The new staff have no stamina these days. I was wondering who I could possibly have found before the start of term, and I confess I had hoped in asking you to take the position, Miss Granger. At least temporarily. But this fortunate turn of events is for the better, I am certain.” Her grey eyes looked into Hermione’s own, and once again creased as she giggled into her handkerchief again.

The flare of pride which swelled Hermione’s stomach was short lived yet impossible to ignore, she might have been able to train as a Potions Mistress. But now the opportunity had passed her by – and for a moment she didn’t understand why this was the case, or why her former year head had said such a thing. It dawned on her then that the Headmistress must intend for Snape to return to his position, and the absurdity of the suggestion shocked her. Hermione turned, opened mouth, to look at Ron a moment before once again looking at McGonagall, who was quite red by now and still shaking with laughter, no sound escaping past the handkerchief clutched to her face.

“You surely can’t mean Snape?” Hermione asked, her need for clarity intense. “Did you not hear how he is right now, how incapable I am of helping him?” She stood from her chair, her unkept hair frizzing around her. Her palms were flat on the table as she leaned down, her anger being kept in check by an unescapable reverence for the woman seated before her, yet hurt by her laughing, the tears of joy like salt on the young girl’s wounds of failure. She was stung.

“I didn’t ask for this, you know,” she said louder then, turning to George for a moment. “I wasn’t given any choice. I’m sure I would have refused, if I had known it was him in that room,” she added bravely, but inside her mind betrayed herself. Would I have? She thought, could I have refused? Could I have *resisted*?

“But despite that, I’ve never faced a challenge so difficult in my life. I have no idea what I am doing and worst of all I feel that nobody can help me.” The girl sat again, the strength of her anger dying slightly. “Nobody *will* help me,” she said. “Everybody seems to think it is all some sort of game, that it will all work out somehow. I feel as if everyone is just sure that I’ll get it right once again, and it really is setting me up for a fall.”

Minerva McGonagall had managed to control her fit of laughter while the ex Head Girl had vented her frustration, but she couldn’t stop the grin that had formed on her lined face. It remained as she tried to comfort her former student.

“There, there. We know you shan’t fall, Hermione. I very much doubt it’s in you.”

Hermione’s brown eyes scanned the old woman’s face, still lined in mirth. Suddenly, she was livid. “This is not a joke!” she said with conviction, although she would have liked to have shouted, it was actually rather quiet. Her low voice still showed her raw emotions, however. “Everybody has been laughing, giving me a pat on the back, making jokes. Laughing about this, but it’s not a joke! If you could see that room, Minerva” – the use of the Headmistress’s given name did not go by unnoticed – “you’d know what a desperate situation he is in. That *I’m* in somehow. And you think he’ll be back in the dungeons by September?” Hermione finished with a gesture somewhat like a shrug of disbelief.

“I’m sorry, Miss Granger, I understand that this is a worrying and stressful time for you,” McGonagall said in a more sober voice, her natural severity adding weight to her apology. “You must know what pleasant news this is to receive, however. Any news of former comrades returned…” the older woman trailed off slightly and Hermione nodded her head, letting it hang a little. She felt the Headmistress’s hand on her shoulder.

“I know you have always had a fear of failing, both yourself and others. That fear is part of what drives you to such grand achievements, many of which you have made in your young life. You have found yourself caring for a person formally your superior, and the unease and added pressures this can lead to are unpleasant, and I do feel for you.”

Hermione straightened up, looking at her past teacher squarely now.

“You won’t fail, my dear. I know Dumbledore’s messages were enigmatic, and I believe he must have known more than he let on, but he was right in telling you to merely care, to achieve the best results you are possibly capable of reaching. I don’t know how you can help him immediately,” the grey hair swayed as the old woman’s head shook. “I wish I did. But we will be able to arrange further help. I’ll have him moved to Hogwarts as soon as possible, further magical analysis can be achieved if he stayed at the school. There are several people I will write to immediately in order to establish further means of progressing.”

Hermione’s head was bobbing up and down like a rubber duck now, a smile alighting her lips as the suggestions came from her advisor. They were solid actions which she could plan and instigate within a few days. Purpose flowed through her veins again.

The Headmistress saw the light begin to glow in the ambitious eyes of the young girl she had admired on many levels during their acquaintance. It had always been a welcomed sight when she had seen it emerge both in the classroom and on the battlefield, the determination setting in after a moment of wavering uncertainty like a beacon blazing. She addressed the girl again.

“In the meantime, do as Dumbledore told you and care for the man. If George’s suggestion of bathing the fellow is still the soundest idea you have come up with,” Hermione noticed the shoulders shake again, despite the witch’s attempts to conceal it, “then that is the course of action I recommend. Although I’m sure the prospect will bring other possibilities to mind before the moment occurs.”

George was laughing too this time, and the two of them practically cackled as they fell about together. Hermione shouted with a renewed vigour.

“IT’S NOT FUNNY!” she shrieked, her hands clenched in fists as she stood, her legs planted firmly. Her shoulders were hunched, her stance aggressive. Her hair fell wildly around her flushed face. “He’s been there five years. Alone in that place for five years! Can you even begin to think how long that really is day by passing day? I’m not even sure if I can. I pray he’s not awake or aware, but I just can’t help feeling that he might be. Imagine that! It scares me. I feel intense guilt knowing how long it’s been since I last saw him,” she hesitated then. George and Minerva looked up at her with matching expressions, a humble understanding. Hermione was talking at a more normal level, she suddenly felt embarrassed.

“I don’t know why,” she said, “but I’m drawn to him. I’m drawn to that room. But if you could see it, see him. You would understand. You would want to keep him company too! It’s a god forsaken place. It would haunt you like it haunts me.” Her jaw set firmly for a moment. “We’ll move him as quickly as possible,” she added. “Once others can see his condition, we are bound to make advances.”

She dropped her chin down now, the tension going from her whole body. “I’m sorry…” she said. “I’m sure you understand.”

Minerva stood and edged around the table, reaching Hermione and giving her a hug once again. They stood for a while, still hugging when the Headmistress began to speak again.

“You are a good girl, and feel keenly. I know this is hard. If you feel you must go to him then go, there is nothing stopping you.” They pulled apart then but remained close as the teacher put her hands on her student’s shoulders. “I will be here when you get back, George and I have a day planned,” she said, turning to smile at the man at the table. “I’ve some questions on the planning of the Anniversary Ball I’m sure he’s just longing to help with,” the woman added with a quirk of an eyebrow. Hermione smiled again.

She felt the soft hand on her cheek as Minerva patted her face. “Take all the time you need,” the soft accented voice told her as they searched each other’s faces with a smile. “You don’t need an excuse to be there,” the woman added, and Hermione’s smile widened. It had been the reassurance she needed. If all she could do was sit with him, then that was what it must be.

“Now, Mr. Weasley and I have an appointment with Ogden’s!” Minerva called, turning back to the kitchen table. “Not too many too early, mind you,” she added with some sense of self-preservation.

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Severus Snape’s body ached from head to toe. He was acutely aware of every inch of his skin and it seemed to burn, tingling with a fire at the end of every nerve. He did not know if it was real or not, he had been thinking of his hours of torture the last week of his life, and his memory of the forbidden curse seemed to ignite startlingly real flashbacks.

He shook slightly, trying to move his legs, his left arm. He wanted to thrash about in the godforsaken bed, he wanted to stride out through the door and into to life he remembered waited for him in the outside world. The wizarding world. He assumed that Voldemort was no more, since he still lived, as did the girl. Granger. He wanted to hunt her down and clop her round her head with his bedpan.

But despite his frantic struggles, it was of no use. His right arm, strong and flexible, scrabbled around reaching for any thing it could, trying to move his dead weight arm or legs. He strained with his neck to sit up, but the weight of his unmoving body pinned him down. Yet again, his attempt to move failed. He had tried countless times over the past day. He needed to get out.

His breath was ragged, he felt the sweat on his face. He took several deep breaths through his nose, calming himself down. He pulled his covers back across his body, resting his right arm at his side. His eyes wondered to the twenty six squares above him.

Old habits die hard, he thought, and counted.

She was still not here, and it must be coming up to midday. He had tried not to expect her at all the previous day, knowing she had missed another, but she had not failed to come two days in a row before, and for some reason he could not explain, he knew that she would come. She must come.

Where had she been? What on earth had she been doing?

He was filled with a dislike for the girl, despite admitting shamefully to himself that he had begun to view her with a particularly favourable eye before his memory had returned to him. Recalling her brattish ways, her smug demeanour and unsavory choice of acquaintances, he was reminded once again of the insufferable Gryffindor he knew her to be, and his opinion of her became balanced again.

She was the only witch or wizard to have visited him though, his actually escaping this prison of a room depended on her. And despite her smugness, he could admit that her pride did have some foundations. Her knowledge was extensive.

Why had she not figured it out then? Why was she not here?

He thought that, perhaps, he might have to intervene in some way. It was obvious she had not figured it out by herself yet. The answer was so simple! He sighed. He was going to need his rest if he was going to carry out his plan.

He closed his eyes.

The continuous beeping filled his mind.

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

The door was closed so she opened it slowly, taking a moment to linger looking through the glass of the door at the dark figure lying in the bed.

Each time she saw him, he seemed smaller than she remembered. Away from this room her memories were mixed with those of him striding and imposing in the corridors of Hogwarts, his height a large part of his stature. In the bed he seemed shrunken and weak, a shadow. It surprised her every time.

She hesitated a moment in the doorway, not knowing whether to stand a while or sit down, so she walked over to the chair and lifted it quickly, placing it as close to the bed as she could while still allowing space for her knees. She sidled into the chair and sat for a while, watching his face. His chest rose and fell gently as he slept, and she took the time to examine his face as it lay relaxed and empty. The black tangle of hair which covered the lower half of his face added years to his age. She leant forwards, her eyes taking in more details of his features.

The black hair which flowed from his head and down across his shoulders was rough and splayed, flying out across the pillow. Usually it had been neatly combed. Hermione realised for the first time that she had not seen a nurse at the desk, and she had simply made her way into his room. She remembered then that it was Sunday, and that fewer staff probably worked at the weekend. Her eyes lingered once more on his face.

His forehead had a few lines across the surface, showing what looked to be worry or confusion despite his face being relaxed in sleep, and she was surprised to see that he had some lines she had not noticed before, fainter but still obvious as close to him as she was now. Crows feet, at his eyes. The faint signs of his laughter. Her eyes swept across his placid face again. He seemed to look different each time she saw him.

She noticed the sweat which had beaded on his head. Once she looked nearer, she saw that his hair was damp and clinging to his face at the sides, his pillow was damp with perspiration. She immediately reached for her bag, taking out her wand and notebook and before using her wand to take his temperature. The fine mist of her charm settled across his forehead, in seconds almost fading to reveal his temperature in red sparks. It was perhaps the higher end of average, but not feverish. She made a few notes.

Her mind was wondering, she was finding it difficult to concentrate on why he might have been so sweaty. He looked as though he had been struggling, but she knew this to be impossible. The day nurse had told her that he sometimes suffered from what appeared to be nightmares, fits while he slept. It was likely this was the cause now, although he looked peaceful enough.

Her mind was drawn again to her conversations with Mrs. McGonagall and with George. She did not know what to do now she was here, but she didn’t mind just sitting and waiting a while, to see if he might wake or if a staff member might call by. Some time passed.

Hermione sat with her elbows digging into her knees, her chin resting in her palms. She watched again the rise and fall of his chest under the sheets. His breathing was even and unhindered, she was pleased there were no tubes or machines helping him to breathe. She had known without studying the hospital charts that this was an unusual occourrance. It added to the mystery of her case. How could he be immobile and yet still have a functioning respiratory system? She took the time to read through the previous notes she had written on the subject. No new ideas presented themselves.

She shuffled in her chair, feeling impatient, a little unsettled inside. She had thought that once she had returned to the room, her desire to interfere would be sated. She knew the further actions she was now planning to take would be formulated and set in motion away from the sharp smelling room she found herself in. The pull which had drawn her to the building again was working inside her, willing her to care for the man as her trusted friends had advised her. She was suffering from an internal battle, however.

She was reticent to touch the man on the bed before her. She could not escape from the thought that he was still her former teacher. Despite the fact that he was unaware of the events around him at the current time, the previous awe and respect with which she viewed the powerful wizard remained a strong part of her psyche, making her hesitate.

On the other hand, she knew that she would be able to provide some clean comfort for the man who so required her help if she were to use her skills at magic. This was, again, an area which caused some worried internal discussion. The use of magic in a muggle facility was risky at best, and she would hate to cause further trouble by having to obliviate a nurse or doctor. She was torn either way. She sat for some minutes more, thinking that she could just sit quietly for the rest of her visit. Her constant desire to *do* niggled away at her, however, and she soon found herself on her feet.

She spent a few minutes looking round the bare room, searching in the one cupboard which was against the wall on the left side of the room. She was wondering what she might find, whether there were any toiletries she could borrow in order to give the appearance of muggle cleaning. There was little she could find of any use, so she left the room for a few moments, walking down to the bathroom, which was situated a few doors further down the corridor. Eventually she found a plastic bowl formed with a groove in the side which was perfect for her needs, and also small bottle of both shampoo and conditioner, and she took these back to the room also, not at all sure that she would use them.

She laid some hand-towels she had found flat on the bed, and arranged the items around her. She moved the chair back, allowing for her to move around the bed. She crossed the room and stood by the door a few minutes, and muttered some weak wards and seals to stop any of the ward staff suddenly interrupting her. She made her way back to the bed then, standing only inches from the side, looking down on her professor.

She suddenly pushed her sleeves up in a gesture of defiance and took out her wand, concentrating on the task in front of her. Some brief spells and wand waving later and Snape’s body began to hover above the bed, the sheets flowing down on either side of him as he hung a foot or so above the mattress. Hermione scourgified the mattress sheet first, and quickly the pillow after. She noticed how fresh and clean they looked once she was done, the covers crisp and freshly laundered. She had become used to the housework while living with Ron, he had never taken the time to even learn. She found reasons to feel pride in the work she was doing now.

She took the pillow, now dry and plump, and placed it lower on the bed, so that it would support his upper shoulders and lower neck when she lowered him back onto the bed. She placed the plastic bowl just above the pillow, and once this was done she held her wand steadily as she lowered the floating form slowly back down onto the sheets. She cast a cleaning spell then on him and the covers, the cotton sheets seeming to ripple as in a wind as they instantly freshened. The bed look instantly more comfortable and clean, although she knew that really the staff had been keeping him very well, especially considering their lack of magical aid.

Once more, she found herself staring at his face. His shoulders were raised by the pillow below him, the back of his head was tilted back, his bearded chin sticking up. His long hair wound into the plastic bowl. She took one of the towels and wrapped it around his neck, all the while being careful to ensure that she did not touch any part of his skin with her own. Once the towel was in place, she cast another spell sealing it securely. She had decided to trim his beard and she knew it would be torment to leave the scratchy trimmings in the bed with him, although she though it could be quite a fun concept once she considered it fully. But it would be unfair, and her Gryffindor sense of fairness overruled the Slytherinesq desire for revenge she briefly felt.

Leaning in close to concentrate on her task, she used her wand to carefully cast severing spells which gradually trimmed the long hairs on his face away. She was careful to pause now and then in order to move the trimmings with a flick of her wand into a cardboard disposable bowl she had found in the cabinet beside the bed, now resting neatly on top of it. Slowly she began to trim as near as she dared with her cutting spells, and soon his face was covered with little more than a rough stubble. She was pleased with he results so far, but did not attempt to cut any of the hairs shorter, since she was not used to using the charm and she knew he would not appreciate it if she were to cut his large nose off with a slip of her hand.

Her dark eyes lingered on his nose a second, and then a second more, the moments lasting as she stood once more, captivated by the face of her old teacher. Before the hollow difference in his appearance was the reality which had captured her attention, but now she could not pull her eyes away for a very different reason.

His face was still painfully thin. Without the beard adding width to his face she could see now just how hollow his cheeks were. His high cheekbones were angular and sharp under his smooth, pale skin. The stubble which ran across the tight skin of his jaw and chin was very dark, black against his light tones. His neck was long and stretched slightly as his head was leant backwards on the pillow, she could see the movement every now and then as he swallowed, she noticed the fluttering spot which showed his pulse.

She studied every inch of his face, every line and edge which showed in the light which came in through the window from the summer afternoon outside. It had not been so swelteringly hot the last few days, and without the intense heat the bright summer light was refreshing. His nose thew a line of shadow across the side of his face which lay away from the window, a precise divide of light and dark splitting down from his forehead to his slightly parted lips. She could not deny that his nose was large, and sharp like the other features of his face.

Like the photograph she had carried with her since she first received it, his face was now absolutely placid, relaxed, this time his eyes lightly closed. Without the scrunched scowl she normally saw adorn his features, he did not look so repulsive as she remembered.

By getting rid of his beard she had apparently taken over a decade from his face. He no longer looked over fifty, a man of her father’s age or more, but instead he seemed to look his natural age, or maybe even younger. Since he was lying down, his hair fell away from his face rather than hanging over it like some dark theatre curtains, and the added width this gave actually set his nose in proportion, it was simply another part of a striking face.

Her eyes studied his hairline, and she was reminded of the streaks of grey which laced through the dark length, fanning our from his temples. She leant forward and cast a stream of warm water from her wand, into the plastic bowl at the head of the bed. With another adapted levitation spell, she charmed the professor’s head so that it leaned gently against the edge of the bowl without tipping and spilling it, and his black and grey hair poured into the water, soaking it up.

She tipped some of the shampoo on to the wet hair, and using her wand to manipulate the soap and water, worked it into a lather on his head. She was stand near to him, almost in the space behind the head of the bed and the wall. Her hands were straight out in front of her, she was satisfied it would seem to anyone who might come in that she was simply washing his hair, although that would surely lead to further questions. However, it was her wand alone which was doing all the work. She still could not bring herself to actually touch the man, let alone massage his scalp in what could almost be described as an intimate way.

She vanished the first batch of water and cast more from her wand, rising the soapy suds away before adding the conditioner and working this through also. She did feel like she was helping somehow, she knew she always felt better in a clean bed after a good wash, and she felt better for having a reason to be in the room rather than feeling like an awkward and possibly unwelcomed guest. As an afterthought, she muttered a few transfiguration spells and mixed some dye into the conditioner she was using. She left it a moment or two before rinsing, and was pleased to see the grey had been hidden by a unified black.

Not bad for a first try, she thought, and made a note of the spells she had used before she forgot them. She cast a drying spell which would dry his hair in a few minutes, and moved the plastic bowl away, making sure to cover his pillow with a towel before resting his head back down onto it.

She broke the wards and charms on the door and walked back down to the bathroom, replacing the items she had borrowed. She took the time to look around to see if she could see any staff around or whether she could see other patients in their rooms, but the doors were all closed, the ward was quiet. It had an eerie, empty feeling. Again she was glad they would be moving her old teacher away from this bleak place.

Hermione was quiet as she walked back into the room, taking time to sit in the chair once more and rest her head in her hands. She still had the lingering aches of her hangover, and her mind felt very fuzzy for a moment. She sat a moment longer in the chair, and then pulled her bag onto her lap, rifling around until she found the razor George had given to her the night before. She tapped it against her palm as she fought once again with her uncertainty. It would be her luck to cut him, and although she knew it might be possible, it would be awkward to give him a closer shave without touching him.

She opened the blade from it’s white casing, holding it up to the light and expecting the blade, the gleam on the metal. She sighed once again, considering the face of the man before her. She made up her mind and stood again, leaning down over the bed.

She noticed she was holding her breath as she leaned nearer to his face. She tried to breath smoothly though her nose, but was captivated by the quiet sound of both her breathing and his, close and quiet in the almost empty room. She was close to him and it made her nervous, she noticed her hands were shaking so she calmed them. She swallowed.

She moved her left hand forward, the right holding the blade at a comfortable angle, the white case handle smooth on her palm. With her left index finger she reached forward and every so slowly laid the very most point of it on his cheek, below his cheekbone. She pushed forward gently again so that his skin was held taught, the only contact still being just the tip of one finger, and even this was making her face red. Her right hand came forward and she slowly dragged the blade in long, smooth upward stroke over his cheek. As with George’s cheek the night before, the smooth skin left behind was a stark contrast to the stubble on the rest of the man’s face.

She repeated her action, every time using only the very tip of her finger in order to touch him. Sometimes she would stretch his skin, at others she would gently push his head forwards or backwards in order to gain an angle that pleased her, and she would follow the sweep of the blade with her dark eyes. Her mouth was dry, she noticed her breathing was still not quite regular. The towel around his throat again caught the pieces of hair she was cutting away. After a few careful minutes, she had finished.

His hair had dried so she cast a combing charm which quickly smoothed it out around him on the pillow. She was very pleased with her dying results now that she saw the final result, it looked very natural and she doubt anyone would realise the truth. She thought that he was certainly young enough to get away with dying his hair, the grey he had was surely the result of his troubled life rather than his years. She thought that, logically, he may have been colouring his hair himself for years.

She charmed the remaining hairs into the bowl and then vanished the stubble away, putting the bowl away in the cabinet again. She took the towel away from his neck, shaking it and folding it with the other, again returning them to where she had found them after a quick scourgify. She went back to the chair, pulled it nearer to the bed once more and sat down heavily.

She pushed her hands into her aching eyes, the blackness before her twisting into shapes as she applied the pressure. Her head really was aching quite badly, but she felt a sense of achievement at the work she had done this afternoon. Whether or not it really made a difference was debatable, and a logical part of her mind was calling her foolish to thinking of it as an achievement, but she had promised Dumbledore she would care for him, and she felt she had somehow done that. She rubbed her face with her hands once more and then sat up straight, taking in for the first time the overall effect of her work.

The dark and smooth hair and black eyebrows, the sharp nose and jawline. The long line of his throat and neck, with the small patch still moving with the beat of his heart. All of seemed to be features she could not help but stare at, her eyes were inexplicably drawn to his face. Without the grey or the stubble his face looked truly altered, she could hardly remember the gaunt face that had greeted her that morning, every morning nearly for the last week. Now he looked as young as he had done in the photograph, the lines she could see only adding to the charm of his handsome face.

She shook herself and tried to laugh her own thoughts away, even to herself, but it was no use, she did find him handsome. She had thought the face in the picture had been lost forever, that her fascination with his features was a part of her grief for a lost past. Now she saw him lying almost preserved in front of her, she had to admit that she was surprised and pleased with how he looked. It was almost as if he had not aged during the time he had spent in the white room. She saw him now as an almost equal, rather than as a child and a ‘grown-up’, and her taste in the opposite sex had certainly matured over that time.

She cursed her analytical mind. Whatever the reason, she had to admit that she found him attractive. It was the honest truth, despite the worrying clash of moral feeling she felt inside as she recalled once again the traits and past actions he had been responsible for. The teenage voice in her, the faintest which faded with each passing day but was still relevant at times, was jumping around screeching ‘ew, ew, ew!’. This was *Snape*, she reminded herself again, but even as she did she dismissed her doubts with a shake of the head as her eyes lingered again on his long dark lashes, his parted lips.

Suddenly images of her dream the night before rose in her mind, previously forgotten in the haze of her drinking but now returning to her with startling clarity. She remembered the smell, the feel, it had been so vivid, absolutely lucid. Her breath caught in her throat, her cheeks flushed red. She had a sudden idea.

Her hesitation was obvious, she moved her hand forwards and backwards in a slow hovering motion due to her uncertainty. She felt afraid, and then the grit determination which always followed her waves of fear. Her lioness’s courage surface, and she set her jaw, her actions taking on a roughness as her determination affected them. But it did not control her so much as to stop herself from realising her goal, from noticing herself how bold she was being. She wanted to touch him and she was going to touch him.

Her feminine hand reached forward, not small but slim, and her fingers spread slightly as they moved nearer to his pale face. She thought at first to touch his cheek but as she moved forward her hand dipped, and the first time the properly touched her ex professor it was on his neck, her cool fingers spreading across the skin before she dragger her hand up over his face, her fingers lingering on the sharp edge of his jaw.

His head tipped back, his neck stretching again and working as he swallowed, and a rough sound came from his throat. It sounded like a low moan, but as his lips worked the gravelly sound almost sounded like her name.

“Granger.”

She almost swallowed her tongue, her heart was thumping at a crazy speed. She collected her thoughts in that split second and pulled her hand away, and was too shocked to even make a sound when at the same time his eyes flew open, staring into her own, and his right hand shot out, clasping her own withdrawing arm in a strong and warm grip.

She heard him say a word, her gazed fixed entirely on the dark depths of his own eyes, and like tunnels they seemed to draw her into a dark world of blackness.