Chapter Two

Hermione had sent a brief, rather terse note via owl to Molly Weasley, giving the address and explaining that she needed some time to take care of a few things. Molly would probably assume she needed more time to get over losing Ron - which she did, really - and would let people know she was all right while discouraging them from going to see her.

Well, that had been the plan, anyway. Two weeks exactly after her arrival, Hermione went down to answer a knock at the door, to find Harry and Neville on the doorstep.

Great. Juuuuust great. Two of the people who Severus loathed most in the world. He was getting agitated enough with just her around, and it wasn't good for him. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, slipping out of the door. She glanced over her shoulder at Winky, who was hovering in the small sitting room. "I'm going outside for a bit," she said firmly. "Don't let him sneak down and lock the doors on me... I've got my wand, and I WILL break one down if I have to." Winky nodded, looking rather amused, and Hermione closed the door behind her, hustling the guys around to the side of the house with only a couple of small windows, where Severus was least likely to see them. "Again. What are you doing here? And why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because you have a black eye?" Neville said in a small voice.

She blinked, and lifted her hand to her left eye. So she did. Severus had had another nightmare last night, and while she tried to wake him had managed to do what he was still, in a weird way, too much of a gentleman to do when he was awake - he'd punched her in the face. She'd accelerated the healing - it should be gone again by morning - but the sight of the bruise had kept him quiet enough that she'd decided not to heal it immediately. "Oh. Yeah. That doesn't explain why you're here."

"We were worried about you." Harry lifted a hand automatically to touch her bruised cheek... but it was the artificial hand, a pale, metallic gold, and when he saw it he lowered it again, scowling. "What on earth are you doing here? And who is the 'he' who might lock you out? And how did you get the black eye?"

"I'm here because someone has to be," Hermione said rather grimly. This wasn't going to go well, and there wasn't any point in trying to soften it. "This is Professor Snape's house, Harry. I've been here for a couple of weeks now-" She'd intended to go on and explain, but she didn't get the chance.

"It's WHOSE house?" Harry demanded, and then, to his obvious surprise, he was being talked over by Neville.

"Did he hit you?" Neville demanded, an uncharacteristic scowl on his good-natured face. "He did. I'm gonna-"

"He didn't mean to, Neville," Hermione said firmly, grabbing his wand-hand before he could take off. She saw his eyebrows go up, and realized how that sounded. "He really didn't. Any more than you meant to nearly kick me through a window that time." She shrugged, giving him a rueful half-smile. "None of us sleep that soundly, these days. I got him woken up and calmed down, but not before he managed to get a lucky punch in. God only knows who he thought I was."

Neville relaxed a bit, and nodded. All of them had, at one time or another during the war, been either hitter or hittee during a waking-from-nightmare. As much as he disliked Severus, she was pretty sure he wouldn't hold a grudge over the eye. Harry, on the other hand, was still scowling. "That doesn't explain what you're doing here in the first place," he said, rather coldly. "Why are you here, Hermione?"

Why was she here. Severus wanted to know, but wouldn't ask. Winky had asked, but had only gotten a partial answer at best. And Hermione herself wasn't always sure. "Because someone has to be," she repeated, shrugging. "He's too weak to take care of himself, and Winky - she followed him here when he left Hogwarts, because he looked lousy - can only do so much, especially when he keeps trying to throw her out. What should I do, Harry, leave him to rot away in miserable solitude?"

"Why not? It's only what he deserves," Harry said grimly. Spy or not, martyr or not, he would never forgive Snape for killing Dumbledore. He'd been furious when he'd discovered that she'd been the one to get him off, and only the fact that she'd been a sobbing mess when he'd found out had kept him from yelling at her about it. "The trial was bad enough, Hermione, but this..."

"Harry, spare me," Hermione said flatly. "We all know you hate him. You've hated him since first year. It has nothing to do with what he's done or hasn't done, and you know it." He looked startled, and she scowled. "He was in the process of being slowly tortured to death when we got there, Harry, remember? He lost an eye, three of his fingers, several toes, and his feet had been flayed. He has scars all over him, he's suffered permanent damage to his lungs and one of his kidneys, he was in a coma for weeks... He's been punished enough, Harry, even for you."

"But-"

"No buts!" Hermione glared at him. "I know you don't like him. I know Neville's terrified of him. I know that Ron never liked him either." Her voice cracked over Ron's name, but she carried on. "And I don't care. He went through more than any of us did, Harry, even you, and instead of being thanked on bended fucking knee for his sacrifices, nobody even cared enough to check whether he was alive or dead after he disappeared from Saint Mungo's. Well, I am not a stupid, selfish, grudgebearing ingrate and I am NOT going to let him lie up there and slowly starve himself to death because he doesn't care if he lives or dies anymore."

"Fine. If that's what you want," Harry said grimly. "I'm sorry we bothered you." He stalked off, and Hermione had to fight the urge to run after him, to soothe and explain and comfort, the way she always had. But Harry didn't need her. He had Ginny, he had Remus and Tonks and the Weasleys, he had the surviving members of the D.A. and the school staff...

Severus was painfully, horribly alone. If she didn't stay, if she didn't take care of him, he would die. And nobody but Winky would mourn him. No human being should have to go through that, and she wasn't going to let him.

Neville touched her arm lightly and she looked around, blinking, realizing she'd been muttering furiously under her breath. "I understand," he said quietly, giving her a rueful half-smile. "I mean, I don't really... you know I'd never get within a hundred miles of him if I could help it. But I understand why you feel like you should stay. I'll... well, I'll try to explain. You take care of yourself."

"I will." She blinked as he hurried off after Harry. Neville had always been sweet, but perceptiveness was new for him. It was... weird, but certainly pleasant.

The door was locked, when she went back to it.

Sighing, she walked around to the back of the house, tapped the large kitchen window with her wand, and temporarily vanished the glass. She climbed through, restored the glass, and headed for the book-lined sitting room. Yes, there he was... black robes gathered around his pitifully thin frame, glaring at the door as if daring it to be broken down. "I suppose it's too much to hope for that you weren't eavesdropping," she said coolly.

He didn't jump, but he turned to give her an icy glare. "Much too much," he said grimly. "I believe I told you once before, Miss Granger, that your pity was neither wanted nor appreciated."

"You're still not getting any," she said calmly. "Sympathy and pity are not the same thing."

"Sophistry," he spat. "I tell you again, Miss Granger, to leave my house, leave me alone, and cease your accursed meddling once and for all."

She shook her head firmly, folding her arms. "No. I am not going to abandon you, Severus, whether you want me to or not."

He blinked, and she realized it was the first time she'd actually used his name when he was fully awake. "Taking personal liberties will not endear you to me, Miss Granger, I assure you," he said icily. "I have not given you permission to use my name."

"After everything we've been through," she said quietly, meeting his furious glare, "we've both earned it. It's fairly pointless to keep trying to pretend we hadly know each other, don't you think?"

"No," he said grimly. "I don't. You don't know anything about me, Miss Granger, and I would thank you not to pretend that you do."

"You'd be surprised." She shook her head. "I started looking, you know, when Harry found that book with 'Half-Blood Prince'. I figured it out well before he did. Your mother's marriage, and your birth, were announced in back-issues of the Prophet. And... well. I kept looking. You know me and excessive research."

He blinked. "Did you choose to invade my personal privacy for any particular reason, Miss Granger, or was it simply for your own... amusement?" He was clinging to the last shreds of his control, and if he'd had strength enough to raise more than a spark or two, he'd have hexed her by now.

She did him the courtesy of thinking about the question. "I was curious," she admitted. "About you. Most people are really quite simple, when you get down to it. But you... you're very complicated. I still don't know why you do half the things you do." She met his gaze steadily. "You present... a distinct challenge, Severus," she said quietly. "I know you better than you think, but I still don't understand you. I don't think anyone does."

He looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. She could see him weighing up what she'd said... the implicit compliment to his complexity and her admission that she didn't fully understand him, against her prying. "I'm gratified that you at least acknowledge that you don't understand me," he said, less bitingly than usual. The weighing had, it seemed, been at least slightly in her favour. "Please, never fall under the delusion that you do."

"I won't." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Will you be joining me in the kitchen for lunch? Winky will be pleased that you're well enough to eat downstairs."

He stood, drawing his robes around himself. "I will," he said coolly. "If you are able to eat in dignified silence. If you persist in chattering, I will have Winky remove your food to the table in your bedroom."

"I think I can force myself to concentrate on the food." She stepped aside, to let him precede her into the hall. Showing respect was important.

He did his best to imitate his former confident, swooping stride, knowing she was watching him. Three steps and he stumbled, his damaged feet unable to cope with the demands he was placing on them, and without thinking, Hermione stepped forward to catch him before he fell.

There was almost nothing to him, his heavy robes seeming to have more bulk than he did, and she held him easily. Glancing up, she saw the startled, almost fearful expression on his face, inches from hers. She didn't look away, as she steadied him gently. "Make haste a little more slowly, Severus," she said gently. "Recovering from something like what you went through takes time... even for the strongest of wizards." She let go, moving around to hover beside him as unnoticeably as possible.

He looked uncertain for a long moment, gave her the tiniest nod, and then ignored her as much as he could as he shuffled painfully towards the door.

After they ate, Severus limped upstairs again, trying to fend Hermione off and then scowling and ignoring her when she persisted in following him up the stairs and watching like an anxious mother hen while he went down the hall to his room.

He was tired, after the unaccustomed activity, but he didn't return to his bed. Instead, he shuffled over to his desk, lowering himself into the comfortable chair with a sigh. The pain was less than it had been... there were times when he hardly hurt at all... but walking still put a strain on his damaged feet, and he was finding himself short of breath after the smallest exertions.

He'd been surprised to realize how much Hermione knew about his injuries. She must, almost certainly, have come to St Mungo's to check on him while he'd been comatose - he'd known that someone from the Order had, but not who. It felt... a little odd. She knew what had happened to him, and he had very little idea of what had happened to her. The Weasley boy had died, of course, and there had been the climactic battle - he'd been there for it, but he'd been drifting in and out of consciousness by then. He vaguely remembered wavy brown hair and straight dirty blond, hovering over him as he was magically bound to a board and floated out of Voldemort's lair.

She'd changed, though. The overenthusiastic child had vanished, replace with a quiet, almost grim woman, who ignored his jibes and who watched him with a shuttered face and haunted eyes. A woman who'd never liked him, yet who watched over him with the same protective gentleness she might have shown to one of her friends, and who had worked to try to understand him.

He was still angry that she'd invaded his privacy, but at least she didn't think she knew what 'made him tick', or some such nonsense. Her acknowledgement that he was difficult to read and understand was actually rather pleasing. And... he couldn't recall anyone ever making any particular effort to understand him before. He wasn't sure how he felt about that, but 'unsettled' came close. Why would Hermione Granger, of all people, turn that disturbingly serious, thoughtful attention on him? On a maimed, nerve-shattered ex-spy that nobody else cared to remember had ever existed?

As he had done many times before, he took stock of himself. The fingers and toes were gone. No magic could regrow what had been severed from the body, especially not the way Voldemort had done it. His eye, too, had been destroyed beyond repair, and he had chosen not to be fitted for a magical replacement. His lungs and kidney had been repaired as much as possible, but the malign magics Voldemort had used had fought healing, and they would never be completely whole again. The same malign power had slowed the healing of his scars and the damage to his feet... although he'd been told that his own attitude had not helped. When a muggle didn't want to get well, they slowed their own healing remarkably. When a wizard didn't want to recover, knew he deserved to suffer, it was even harder to force the body to heal.

Emotionally, he was a wreck. His nerve was gone completely... the terrors that haunted him in the night were nothing new, but even in daylight, now, he was siezed by fits of panic, and could rarely bring himself to leave the house. Self-loathing gripped him... he could never earn forgiveness for what he'd done, nor did he believe that he deserved to. Thoughts of the Greater Good might have helped Albus Dumbledore... they did nothing for Severus Snape, with the parade of reproachful ghosts who filled his dreams.

All in all, he thought grimly, a useless and unneeded specimen of humanity. It would have been better all around if he'd died. Only the habit of years, the determination to survive, had kept him from taking steps to destroy himself. Simple neglect would have done the job, had Winky and the wretched Hermione not interfered.

This was a familiar track, and his mind ran along it with ease. Irredeemable, worthless, vile, should have died... he'd thought them many times before.

The memory of gentle arms holding him protectively, and warm eyes filled with almost tender concern, had no part in this particular train of thought. It refused to fade, though, no matter how often he pushed it to the back of his mind. The two thoughts warred, in his mind, and he sat at his desk blind and deaf to the outside world as the darkness of early spring drew in, and the room got colder.

"It's nothing serious," the healer said reassuringly, as he slipped out of the bedroom into the hall where Hermione was hovering anxiously. "Just a chill. In his weakened condition it's hitting him hard, but he'll be all right in a few days, if he's kept warm and fed."

Hermione nodded, gnawing unhappily on her lower lip. "He's been getting up again, the last few days, moving around on his own," she explained. "We thought he was sleeping, after coming downstairs earlier in the day. It wasn't until well after dark that Winky went looking for him and found him sitting at his desk in a cold room."

"That would do it," the healer agreed. He was a short, stocky wizard with neat brown hair and a bushy mustache, who'd introduced himself as Achille Emendis. "You'll need to keep an eye on him, Miss... Granger, isn't it?"

Hermione nodded. She'd leaned heavily on her reputation as One Of Harry Potter's Friends, She Was There At The End, to get a proper healer from St Mungo's itself to come out and see him. She didn't know where to find a more local one, and didn't want to have to explain his injuries even if she had. "I will. He's... resisting recovery, to an extent. After a trauma like that... well, I'm sure you've seen more than a few cases, since the end of the war."

"Too many," he agreed rather sadly. "Post-traumatic stress, survivor's guilt, simple despair... it's not easy to get through to them sometimes." He gave her a curious look. "If I may ask... Are you a relative of some kind?"

Hermione shook her head. "A former student," she explained, hoping that would be enough. "I've known him for a long time, and I know he has no family living." And disliked him a lot, for most of it, even though she'd always respected him and been a little in awe of his intelligence and power.

"Ah, I see." He nodded, apparently relieved to find there was a non-dirty explanation for the presence of a young girl in the home of a middle-aged male wizard. Most wizards were terrible prudes, in Hermione's experience. "Well, he's lucky to have you. A great many poor souls, these days, have no-one to call on."

"He didn't call on me. He orders me out of the house daily, actually." She smiled ruefully. "I ignore him. He's... well, his judgement isn't at its best just now. When he's well enough to throw me out the way he keeps threatening to, then maybe I'll leave."

Emendis laughed softly. "I see you know something about sick people. Don't take what he says too personally, especially not just now." He patted her arm in a kindly sort of way. "He may be somewhat disoriented, for the next day or so... the fever, you know."

"I noticed. I'll look after him... and if he gets worse, I'll call on you again." The healer nodded, and after saying a polite but brief goodbye, Hermione slipped into the bedroom. Severus was asleep, at the moment, his thin face damp with sweat, and she drew a comfortable chair over beside the bed. Disoriented was a mild word for what he'd been, last time he'd woken up. She'd stay here.

That night, she transfigured a couple of chairs, temporarily, into a camp-bed, so she could stay in the room. She was glad that she had, later... another nightmare hit him at around three in the morning, and this time there were no cries to wake her down the hall... even in the same room, his soft whimpers didn't wake her immediately.

She was still half-asleep when she reached the side of his bed, but the sight of him shocked her awake. She'd seen him terrified, furious, savage, haunted... but she'd never seen him cry before. He was curled in a tight ball, quiet, miserable sobs half-muffled by his pillow. His eyes were open, but she was sure he couldn't see her, and when she touched him, he didn't seem to notice at first. "Severus," she whispered, curling a gentle hand around his tightly clenched fist, as he stared at her unseeingly. "Severus, wake up... shh... it's all right, it's a dream..."

He burrowed his face into the pillow, and she heard him mumble something, but she couldn't tell what it was. Cautiously, she sat on the edge of the bed, nudging him gently. "It's all right," she murmured, keeping her voice low and gentle. "Shhh, it's all right..."

She caught the mumble this time. "I'm sorry," he whispered, still staring at whatever demons were haunting him tonight. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

"I know," she said gently, resting her hand on her forehead. Still feverish. She smoothed his hair back gently, and then gasped as her other hand was suddenly clutched in both of his.

He sat up, staring at her with that strange, blank gaze as he clutched at her hands. "I'm sorry," he said pleadingly. "I am... I mean it... please, I'm sorry..."

"I know you are," she said, feeling horribly helpless. "It's all right, Severus. Don't let it worry you anymore, okay? It's all all right now."

He stared at her for a moment more, and then he swayed unsteadily. She reached out to steady him, and he leaned against her, letting out a miserable little noise that almost broke her heart. She hugged him gently, letting his head settle on her shoulder. "Shhh..." she breathed, rocking a little. "Shhh... it's all right now. I'm here..." He clung to her, forehead hot against her neck, and she kept rocking, murmuring soothingly.

He relaxed against her, the sobs fading into slow, gulping breaths... and then he sat up again, and looked at her, and this time he saw her. "Hermione?" he said, seeming puzzled. "What..."

She let go of him, blushing a little. "You've got a fever," she explained, touching his forehead with her fingertips. "And you were having a nightmare. The combination seemed to make things... worse."

He nodded, frowning a little, more in bewilderment than disapproval. "It was... bad," he admitted. "But you fixed it." He yawned, and let her tuck him back into bed, which somehow didn't seem nearly as incongruous as it should. "Thank you, Hermione."

"You're welcome," she said, smiling at him. "I'll be right here, okay? I promise."

He nodded, yawning again. "Thank you," he said drowsily. "I don't want you to go away..."

Then he was asleep, and Hermione... was not going to sleep anytime soon. He didn't want her to go away? Since when? Did he mean just now, when he was sleepy and disoriented? Or while he was sick? Or...

The man told the truth at the most inconvenient times. Like when he could plausibly deny everything when he woke up.

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