The Doctor

Introduction

Do not own. Yet, please do enjoy.

Severus Snape was in a dire situation. Minerva was frantic, stumbling ever so often over the rim of her robe or an odd root, as she levitated the body of the unconscious man over the battlefield – it was sheer luck that she had found him, but they were even more lucky that he was still alive.

Quick thinking of Hermione's part, no doubt, the witch thought as she hurried over the slippery grass-plain of Hogwarts. If her charms had been correct – and if they weren't she should retire from her post as professor – then the reason Severus was still alive was because of a bezoar and a well-placed petrificus that would stop the blood-flow. And the headmistress highly doubted that either Harold or Ronald would have thought of such a thing much less execute the charms in a stress-situation, as this one.

Finally she made it to the stairs of Hogwarts, stumbling yet again when she took the first two stairs, ripping her gown. She had no time for caring though; even knowing that she was quickly – all too quickly for her liking – reaching her limits. She had to still collect their wounded or even fallen comrades... after she'd delivered her friend and colleague to the infirmary where hopefully he would be saved. When she arrived, the infirmary was filled with patients, survivors of the war, most of them standing or sitting already, having been healed by either Poppy or any other nurses. Surprisingly, it was Hermione herself, who welcomed her and ushered her towards an empty bed to place the Professor.

A quick nod of the young witch assured Minerva that everything would be fine from now on, Hermione knew what she had to do – she'd been in training for years now; had started as a student-assistant in her third year and had never looked back. She knew that she could trust the witch to take care of Severus, he was in capable hands. Heavy weight lifted off her shoulders as she stood and watched the young witch start to work, before she nodded to herself again and turned, finding more survivors.

Hermione took a deep breath as she ripped the shirt off her professor's body, dispelling the petrificus. At once the blood started to leak out of the severe wound, the man beneath her gasping from the struggle to breathe – much like he'd done when she had cast the spell in the first place. Wasting no time, she pushed her hands to his naked chest, releasing the magic within her, allowing it to seep into the body of her professor.

Healing had always interested her and being best friends with Harry and Ron, she had learned simple healing spells quite early. Hermione had started to get really proficient in her third year, healing gashes silently and it had been that particular year that Poppy had caught her healing a first-year. The nurse had wasted no time asking her to become an apprentice and Hermione had never looked back. Poppy had taught her well, had encouraged her to learn more and introduced her to people who furthered her knowledge and her abilities. She had been shocked when Poppy had pulled her aside after the immediate battle had been over and had demanded that she would occupy the infirmary with them, she'd be needed, the witch had said. And Hermione admitted that indeed she felt needed: no matter where she looked, people came in bleeding or hexed, hoping to be relieved of their pain.

But she'd been shell-shocked when her professor had entered the infirmary, the petrified body of Snape floating behind her – there had been no time for asking questions or wondering, time was precious in the case of her potions professor and she'd realized that she would not be able to ask either Poppy or any of the other medi-witches what to do, she had to do this on her own; and Minerva had entrusted her this patient.

Closing her eyes, she gave in to her healing intent – as she had been taught by Lucinda, head-healer of the Saint Andrew's Order, known around the wizarding-world for the exceptional healers they educated. The older witch had fuelled the healer intent within her – the intent to heal and to do good, as was expected from a healer. And Hermione found that she readily adapted to the way of St Andrew's head-healer.

The magic poured out of her fingertips and her palm, spreading through the body beneath her. It was obvious that the venom had attacked his magic before anything else for the magic within a wizard could mean his survival even if every bone within him or her was shattered – she was deeply astonished at the sheer willpower with which the professor had kept himself alive. It gave her some hope for the man though – he, of all people, would deserve to survive and finally be able to live the life that he so pleased to lead.

It took her time to heal the gashes and the inner damages, especially the damages in the lungs which were pumped with blood and venom – but when she had finished, she opened her eyes to see a completely healed professor in front of her. His cloak was still ripped where the Snake had bitten him, but other than the tender flesh of a scar nothing was visible.

About to leave his side, she was surprised when, unerringly, his hand flew to hers, arresting her in her movement. "Don't leave." He breathed rasping and despite herself, Hermione smiled, slowly guiding a hand to his head, once again letting her magic take over herself.

Minerva watched the scene with rapt attention. Just having entered with a few Aurors, she was arrested by the sight of her star-pupil bent over the potion's professor, a small smile playing at both their lips. Hermione's right hand was placed softly – almost lovingly – at the forehead of Severus, while her left hand was cradled in his own, larger one.

She had not seen Severus smile this sincere for ages. Of course by now she was used to his sarcastic smirks, to his sinister smiles or even the occasional – but unusual – barely visible twitch of his lips. But it took her some really hard thinking to remember when his lips had spread this easily, his face lax and his eyes closed in total surrender and relaxation.

As if sensing her, Hermione lifted her head and then shook her head slowly at her, indicating that there was nothing to worry about and when she went back to gently stroke her thumb over Severus' forehead, Minerva knew that – indeed – there was nothing she should worry about.

It was odd, he mused as he slowly came to himself, only to catch a glimpse of brown hair. "Don't leave." He pleaded, and was surprised when the hand he had just held glided back into his larger one – willingly and fearless – before the soothing feeling of healing magic washed over him and he lost his touch to the world again, anchoring solely on the soft magic floating through him.

He awoke when he felt his inner-clock chiming, telling him to stand up and get to work, as he had done for the past twenty years. He almost expected to wake in the Shrieking Shack, or even better, in some dungeon – perhaps Malfoy Manor – simply kept alive to be tortured. Cautiously opening his eyes to what he immediately identified as Hogwarts' infirmary, he was surprised to find Miss Granger's head lying on his side, her face eased into a relaxed smile, their hands still intertwined. He blinked a few times before a soft smile stole over his features as he looked at the young woman, relaxing back into the soft cushions.

As annoying as she might have always been, and as sceptic as he should be: she had given him back his life, had stopped the bleeding and his actual death… and if he was not mistaken, then it may as well have been her to heal him yesterday. That: and in his bliss of having actually survived the one point in history he'd been sure would mark his death, he could not seem to care who it was that held his hand and stayed at his side... it was strangely soothing to know that it was at least someone with an IQ over 100. Carefully he took in the soft contours of the young woman.

She looked pale, but illuminated by the first rays of the sun, he found one and the other freckle dust her skin and face. Now that he looked at her, he had to admit that he had to correct his memory of an eleven-year-old, buck-toothed, frizz-haired child to that of a young, adult woman? Just when had that happened? And when had her messy hair mellowed down into those soft curls? He looked at their intertwined hands; he could not remember a time when he had felt so cared for, when he had slept as good as that, he could not remember even the slightest inkling of a nightmare.

But post-battle-bliss aside, he was not delusional – he knew that he would still be a hunted man; the ministry was still not sure on whose side he was. After all Potter had his memories and Albus, his only other witness, had been killed, by himself no less.

Rest it, boy, he could almost hear the soothing voice of the old man, you have released me if anything, never doubt yourself. He was surprised that the soothing words festered in his heart instead of the remorse, he had, until now, fed himself.

Slowly untangling himself from his young, but no doubt gifted, student, he fixed his appearance rapidly, his eyes resting on the sleeping figure of the witch. His magic worked flawlessly for him, his heart was at peace for once and he knew that leaving now, without even the smallest thanks to the young witch would be an act worthy of only a Neanderthal – and Severus Snape prided himself with manners. So, as subtly as he could, he produced a small chain with a healer's sign dangling from it – Aesculap's staff. Carefully charming it to be carried and given away only by her, he softly placed it in her palm and could not deny himself the pleasure of leaving small kiss on her cheek as his last token of gratitude, before he vanished from the infirmary, silent as a breeze.