Only a few minutes passed before the apprentice reentered the room, this time with an older, slightly balding, bespectacled man on her heels. Severus immediately stood and stepped out of the way, wanting to be as little a hindrance to their care of Hermione as possible. They went straight to her bed, one on either side of her, and Severus watched and listened with nearly unendurable anxiety.
"Loss of blood?" the healer asked, noting the IV.
"Significant," his assistant replied. "Her color has improved slightly."
"Head trauma?"
"Likely. The worst of her injuries was at the back of her head, and she hasn't stirred."
The healer gently turned Hermione's face to the side, exposing the back of her head, and began speedily muttering a spell. A small dot of red appeared where her injury had been, and it slowly grew to a fist-sized crimson cloud, swirling in the air.
"What is that?" Severus asked.
"Not good," the healer tersely replied.
"What does it mean? Is she going to be alright?" His voice was rising in volume and pitch.
"Sir, I don't mean to be rude, but I really need to concentrate."
Severus immediately silenced himself.
"Can you handle this on your own?" the apprentice quietly asked.
"Yes. Take him outside and take her history, please."
The witch stepped away from Hermione's bedside and met Severus' eyes. "Come with me," she said, and stepped out of the room.
He followed her, but his eyes didn't leave Hermione until he was out the door. They stopped some ten feet down the hall from the room, and she summoned a tablet, a roll of parchment, a pot of ink, and a quill from the front desk. Allowing the ink to levitate, the dipped the quill and began her questions.
"First, I'll need your name," she said.
"Severus Snape."
She looked up at him briefly and commented, "I thought you looked familiar," as she noted it on the page. "Name of the patient?" she asked, getting back to business.
Severus swallowed, but his voice still broke as he said her name. "Hermione Jane Granger."
She quickly scribbled his response. "Date of birth?"
"September the nineteenth, 1979."
"Next of kin?"
At this, Severus frowned. "Her parents are Muggles; their whereabouts are unknown. She modified their memories and relocated them during the war, and has since been unable to find them."
The witch nodded her understanding, but pushed the subject. "Is there anyone we can list as her next of kin? Anyone at all?"
After a moment's deliberation, he answered, "Harry Potter."
As she added Harry's name to the chart, she asked, "And who should we contact in case of an emergency?"
Severus answered gravely but with authority. "Mister Potter and myself."
Once again, she recorded his answer to her question while asking the next one. "And your relationship to the patient?" She finished the last letter of his name and looked up at him, waiting for his reply.
The most important person in my life. The one I cannot stand to lose. The woman I love. "Friend," he finally responded, his voice gruff with emotion. He lowered his gaze then, roughly wiping the heel of his hand against his eyes.
This did not go unnoticed by the healer's apprentice. Her expression softened, and she allowed him a moment before she said, "We'll take good care of her. Theodore is the best healer I've ever seen. My name is Gwen. Please don't hesitate to ask if you need anything."
He nodded, still refusing to meet her eyes. "Thank you."
"If you'll just wait out here, one of us will update you as soon as we've determined her condition and the extent of the damages. Will you be alright?"
Again he nodded, sniffing loudly. She left him.
Severus waited until she disappeared into Hermione's room before he followed. He leaned against the wall right outside her door, fretfully twisting his hands and fighting the tightness in his throat. His thoughts were all for her, and as he contemplated her importance in his life, the meaning and – dare he admit it? – the happiness she had brought to it, his mind wandered to the very first conversation they had had as more than professor and pupil. It was the first time she had dared to address him as an equal, and it had brought the first stirring of change between them.
(Two years ago)
Severus was barricaded in the basement of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, seeking privacy and solitude. The Potter boy and his friend Granger (though obvious targets for the band of Death Eaters who were still at large) had, like him, elected not to leave the country, and had, also like him, taken up temporary residence at the Order of the Phoenix headquarters. Ronald Weasley joined them, as well – to be close to the girl, Severus suspected. It appeared that they were something of an item. Living with three teenagers – one of whom was now fully aware of the all-consuming love Severus had harbored for his mother – was nigh unbearable. So, of course, he spent a great deal of his waking hours in the basement, where no one else seemed to want to be.
At least a dozen books were spread out on the table before him, all open to the last few pages. A rather sharp headache was forming behind his eyes, which were tired from hours of examining fine print, but the project he was undertaking mattered too much for him to consider abandoning it. He ran one long, slender finger down the page as he read, flipping back hundreds of pages every so often, always returning to the back of the book. When yet another proved to lack the information he sought, he slammed it shut with an aggravated curse.
"Professor Snape?"
He snapped his head up, detecting the twinge of what was sure to become a very painful crick in his neck, to see none other than his one female housemate. His normally thin patience was stretched even more so by the continued fruitlessness of his months-long endeavor, as well as the recent revelation of every last one of his deepest, most personal secrets. "Miss Granger, I know you can see that I am busy. What do you want?"
Unperturbed by his poor temper, she stepped closer. "I was just wondering if you happened to have a decent book on Wizarding Law. I saw you walk in with a stack of books this morning."
"I do not," he brusquely answered with an impatient sigh, already buried in another book.
But she was not ready to be dismissed. She took the footsteps required to nearly close the distance between them, coming to stand right next to his chair. Being careful not to disturb the book he was reading, she lifted the covers of each one she had access to, reading their titles. "Are all of these books about potions?" she inquired.
"Books about potions," he confirmed, "and books about books about potions."
"What are you looking for?" she asked, genuine curiosity evident in her tone.
"What I am looking for is immaterial," he abruptly replied, "as I will never find it with you nattering on and distracting me. Go away and leave me in peace."
For several moments, silence stretched between them, and then she began to walk away. When she was halfway to the door, however, she stopped and turned to face him. "Keeping to yourself was all well and good when you were playing both sides," she asserted, "but things are different now. The war is over. Eventually, you are going to have to learn to live among the rest of us."
He had no idea what it was, but something stirred in him the urge to comply with her statement, even though to do so went against every one of his instincts and habits. Maybe he felt he was beginning to stagnate. Maybe he wanted to avoid awkwardness with her later. Maybe some small, hidden part of him actually wanted company. Whatever the reason, just as she placed her hand on the doorknob, he forced himself to answer her. "'The Beginning of Potion-Making in the Magical World' by Frederick Finglegott."
Once more, she turned to face him. "I beg your pardon?"
He let escape a small sigh before pushing the next words out of his mouth. "That's what I'm looking for. It's a rare book; it's been out of print for decades." She was walking back towards him now, and suddenly it was much more difficult to cease the flow of words than it had been to start it. "I read it when I was a child. It belonged to my mother, and I think she inherited it from one of her parents. I lost it years ago." Deciding that she had heard enough of the personal details, he changed the course of the conversation. "I've been scouring the indexes of every potions book I can find, searching for some mention of it as a reference, so I can find who published it. But everywhere I turn leads to another dead end." He leaned back in his chair then and slowly rubbed his face with his hands.
"Can I help you look?" she asked.
He turned to look at her, mystification etched in every line of his face. He could not imagine why she would elect to spend any of her spare time with him. He had always been morose, unpleasant, and even downright harsh – in short, exceedingly poor company. And on top of that, she had a new amour living under the very same roof! Surely she had better things to do. But he studied her expression for a full quarter of a minute, and she showed no signs of insincerity.
"Alright," he finally acquiesced.
And, unexpectedly, they spent the remainder of the afternoon in quiet, companionable study.