Hey everyone. I hope the last chapter cleared up all of the comments about Dumbledore allowing Snape into Hogsmeade, along with some other things… I've been receiving many comments about the Boggart incident, and how it isn't consistent with the Cannon. Technically, if you refer to the book with me :: whips out book and perches reading glasses on her nose:: there is nothing talking about the incident in Remus Lupin's class until chapter 11, page 227 in the hardcover, American version Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, where it says, "… Harry, Ron, Hermione sat down side by side at the end of the table. "Crackers!" said Dumbledore enthusiastically, offering the end of a large silver noisemaker to Snape, who took it reluctantly and tugged. With a bang like a gunshot, the cracker flew apart to reveal a large, pointed witch's hat topped with a stuffed vulture. Harry, remembering the boggart, caught Ron's eye and they both grinned; Snape's mouth thinned and he pushed the hat toward Dumbledore, who swapped it for his wizard's hat at once." (If anyone has trouble finding that in the book, email me and I'll prove to you it's there.)
Now, for all intensive purposes, one could insist that it could be inferred from that passage that Snape knew about what had happened, and that the hat had to do with the boggart. But, if you just think, it doesn't specifically say that he knew; he could have just been being his usual 'cheery' self, took one look at the hat, and blanched in repugnance. Therefore, being his usual crabby self, sneered and pushed the hat away, not wanting to be any part of any holiday cheer. It said that Harry and Ron remembered the Boggart incident, but not that Snape did.
Wow, made that a little drawn out, didn't I? Well, just wanted to explain myself, to make the story make more sense. I hope that clears it up. If you have any more questions or would like to continue the discussion with me, please, feel free to email. I'm always happy to chat.
On with the show!
"Professor!"
"Professor Dumbledore!"
Pounding sounded through the halls of Hogwarts as four fists beat desperately on the oak door of the Headmaster's office. After directing all of the students to their respected houses, only three remained; all three were determined to speak with the Headmaster.
"Headmaster!" The pounding continued furiously, "Headmaster, this is urgent!"
The handle swiftly began to turn and the door creaked open. The Headmaster's face appeared, though usually with twinkling mischievous blue eyes and a warm smile, at this time appeared worried and strained. "What is all the commotion out here?"
Three worried and expectant faces looked up at him with trepidation. The Headmaster looked at all three faces and raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you boys supposed to be in Hogsmeade? You still have about an hour and a half left."
"We can't, Professor!"
He ushered them inside his office. "And what would be the cause of that, Mister Weasley?"
"Death Eaters stormed the village!" cried Harry.
"Snape went after them to try and hold them off, and Hermione went to help him! Neither has come back yet!" followed Neville.
Something in Dumbledore's eyes died suddenly; Harry really wasn't sure how to describe it to anyone, and wasn't sure if he knew what it was himself. Instead of offering them a seat, he folded his hands before him. "Where?"
"Right outside Honeydukes, he ran out and started to confront one of them, I suspect it was Malfoy, and Hermione ran after him! She was worried sick!" answered Neville frightfully.
"Honeydukes?" echoed Dumbledore, a twinkle of concern in his eyes, "Why was he in Honeydukes?"
Harry shifted on his feet nervously, afraid of punishment. "He asked Ron and I to lead everyone back to Hogwarts from the village through a small tunnel under the store. Death Eaters were literally flooding the place. He had no choice but to protect us, but why he stayed behind I'll never know." He swallowed, even though his throat was dry. "Hermione said they'd be right behind us," his voice grew small with sadness and frustration, "but they didn't come back."
Neville's cheeks were rosy with cold and uneasiness, and he had taken to ringing his hands. "We have no idea where they are," he explained, holding out his hands in exasperation, "and we wanted to go back and get them, but Harry said it wasn't a good idea."
"I was afraid the Death Eaters were still around and I didn't want any one else to get hurt unnecessarily," Harry explained.
Dumbledore put a comforting hand on top of Harry's head, "That was a very wise decision." He seemed to be doing some fast thinking, his eyes diverted to the window for a few seconds before coming to focus on the three boys again. "I'll send some of the professors to find Professor Snape and Hermione. Rest assured, we will find them."
"Thank you, Headmaster," said Harry, a small smile making its way onto his face.
"For now, though," Dumbledore finished, "I think you should stay in your dorms. I'll have some hot chocolate and tea sent up from the kitchens to all the dorms. Hurry along now," he opened the door for them to depart, "I'll go and alert the other professors immediately."
Harry, Ron, and Neville left.
They walked in silence for most of the walk to their dormitories. There was nothing to be said; well, nothing intelligent, anyway.
"Do you think they'll be back for Christmas next week?" Neville asked timidly.
Harry began to climb the staircase, "I'm sure they will." Though he was unsure himself, it convinced Neville enough to stop worrying for the time being. It even helped him to hear himself say it, even if he didn't believe it. It brought a little faith into his heart.
Harry gave the password and Neville climbed clumsily into the common room, only to be bombarded by questions from his classmates.
Ron pulled Harry aside before he went in and was attacked by people. The hand on Harry's wrist was shaking, "Do you really think they'll find them, Harry?" he asked fretfully.
Harry put on a smile and placed a hand on his shoulder, "Sure I do," he said strongly, his eyes bright. "After all, they couldn't have just disappeared."
One morning and one evening passed before Hermione's body built up enough strength to rise out of unconsciousness. Her limbs felt as if they'd been pounded with a meat tenderizer and her chest and torso felt shattered and bruised. Her eyes parted only slightly before she realized she had no intention of opening them fully. Her eyes ached as they tried to become accustomed to the complete darkness of… well, she wasn't quite sure of where she was at that moment. Her pupils dilated a moment, and she slowly turned her head despite the pain in her neck and she noticed she still couldn't see anything.
Slowly she was aware of the coldness of, she suspected, the room. It flooded through her thick robes and bit into her skin, freezing her insides. Her muscles felt nonexistent, and her own fingers like ice. The place smelled of decaying flesh, the strong smell burning the insides of her nasal passage. Blood and sweat seemed to be spattered on the walls, their scent also making themselves present. She also smelled waste; all of those combined made her stomach curl and twist; not only because of the potency of their smell.
She tried to move, but found her body unresponsive. Fearing she was paralyzed, she tried again, this time with more force, and managed to stretch out her legs, but yelled in pain. Needles, pinpricks, and hammers attacked her bones. She didn't try again to move. I'm alive, she told herself solidly, and I can move, I suppose that's a good sign…
A jolt of alarm hit her as she heard voices. Soft at first, like they were coming from a poorly tuned radio, then louder as they grew closer. She heard them approach her sounding like pounded footsteps on an old staircase,
"Here, down here, I swear I heard something."
They heard my scream, she thought, mental scolding herself for her own lack of common sense.
Heavy metal boots; at least two pairs of them; pounded on stone floor outside the door of the chamber. The sound echoed off the walls and slightly reminded her of the sound her Potion Master's shoes made on the floor of the dungeons when he was busy pacing during his dramatic dictation of notes. Her heart almost did a leapt as she remembered he had been with her; she desperately wanted a companion with her, even if it was Snape.
"Do you think she's awake yet?" a man's voice said harshly, "It's been a day and a half now."
A day and a half? I've been unconscious that long? she thought with panic.
"I hope so," said another, younger male, "It's no fun torturing someone if they're not awake enough to feel it."
One chuckled; a deep, echoing chuckle, that rasped in his throat like his esophagus was tight from consumption of alcohol. "Yes, but she'll be feeling it when she wakes up."
Hermione stiffened and shut her eyes tightly, trying not to tremble. With fear or cold, she didn't know, but she relaxed nonetheless and steadied her breathing. She heard the lock turn with a key in the door and the knob slowly turn with a moan, and felt bright light flutter onto her eyelids. Her mouth felt immediately dry and she wanted to swallow, but refrained from doing so when a shadow cast itself across her face.
"Damn," echoed the raspy voice, "she's still out cold."
She felt his steel-tipped shoe dig into the flesh of her side, and she gritted her teeth to hold back a groan. The muscles in her jaw tightened, and he kicked her body over onto her stomach. "Yup. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she was dead." He took a couple steps away from her, "Make sure she's still breathing."
A cool hand was slipped under her chin, the sharp fingernails digging into the skin of her jaw. "It's dim, but it's still there."
The man sighed. "All right, leave her be, for now, at least," he said quietly. "Maybe she'll be awake by morning."
The door closed and locked.
Leaving her to herself again. Her and her fearful thoughts.
Now that her eyes were closed, she realized how desirable falling back into unconsciousness was. The darkness flooded her eyes, and she shifted her arms so her head was cradled somewhat. Her neck remained stiff, but the tautness resided somewhat. She felt a headache spread like fire from the back of her head towards the backs of her eyes, making sleep more attractive each moment that passed. A sleepy whimper escaped the back of her throat, and she let her mind take over.
The voice began to retreat as her body began to shut down again, too weak to move.
"I suppose she's better off than that other fellow."
The raspy voiced man replied, "Who, the traitor? The Lord told us his name some time ago, but it seems I've forgotten."
"Severus, I believe it was."
"Ah yes," she heard as the answer, as her stomach lurched, "I heard his screaming all last night. Malfoy's torture room is right below mine. Had trouble getting to sleep. Screams sounded something dreadful."
"He'll be something dreadful by the time Nott and Macnair are done with him… not to mention the Lord. I'm surprised he let them have their fun with him first."
Though Hermione was rapidly falling down the little rabbit hole into nothingness, she still understood what they were saying. Oh please let him live, she prayed hysterically, don't let him die…
"I wouldn't be surprised if he was dead by now," said the every-retreating voice, "not with the torture he's received."
A tiny sob escaped her throat as her cheeks dampened, and she wished to God that Snape would live and be all right. She wiped her eye with the back of her hand and buried her face in the sleeve of her cloak. Malfoy had won; she'd lost Dumbledore's trust. If Snape died, she didn't know if she could live with herself. She was positive she'd be expelled for sure; what would Ron and Harry think? Would they abandon her too? Would they look down on her with scorn, like she was something awful?
The severity of the situation suddenly dawned on her and she buried her head deeper in her arms to muffle the sound she made sobbing. She would end up a lonely muggle, like she was before she realized what she was born to do. Magic. It was her life now, and she wished it would always be, but she knew that since she had let down the headmaster, all the trust she had been bestowed by the rest of the staff was now gone as well; Lupin would despise her, just like he despised Pettigrew; McGonagall would think of her as a prized student no longer. No one could respect a girl who killed one of her own professors.
She couldn't stop the tears; the pain she imagined and felt was too great. She came into this world alone, and obviously now, she was destined to leave it alone.
Harry sat dejectedly at his desk in Transfigurations and looked up towards the front of the room where Professor McGonagall was explaining advanced transformations of animate objects, not really paying attention to anything she said. Ron sat, head in his arms, eyes focused on his feather quill as he bobbed it up and down in his fingers. He let out a heart heavy sigh, and Harry swore McGonagall noticed, but she didn't say anything.
With the holidays steadily approaching, their hopes for a Christmas with Hermione were slim. They asked Dumbledore, Lupin, and McGonagall everyday whether or not they had heard anything about or from her. They always answered negatively; Harry and Ron departed with even heavier hearts, slowly losing hope.
Though Ron noticed her absence, Harry seemed to miss her more. He lay awake at night, missing her gentle words, her encouragement. Her constant repetition of "You'll get it eventually, don't give up". He missed her presence, her playfulness. He even missed they're petty arguments, even though there were rarely any to speak of. Most of all, he missed the playful banter the three shared, which was never heard since her disappearance. Ron was still there to talk to, to confide in, but he was no Hermione.
Neville was extremely distressed about Hermione's current position. He feared she had died, and was weepy every time something was mentioned that reminded him of her. Though somewhere in the back of their minds, Ron and Harry had thought the same thing, they didn't let the chance of it being true control their thoughts. Hermione was intelligent; she'd find a way around it, she would win. She always had in the past.
Harry had thought about searching for her, but the truth was, he had no idea where to start. There was no way of getting back into Hogsmeade, now that the passageway that had been most convenient in the journey was blocked off; its presence was obvious now. But school was in session still, and he still had to attend classes, much to his and Ron's dismay. They were not given lighter workloads simply because their friend was possibly in danger; sympathy was not something they had seen much of either.
No one else had really noticed Hermione's desertion; only Snape's lack of presence had been noted. It was all over the school, from people who had had potions and had proof that he hadn't been there. "It's a miracle!" some cried, "Snape had taken a sick day for the first time in decades!" Only Ron, Harry, and Neville knew the truth about his vanishing from classes; he wasn't here to teach them.
Dumbledore had come to speak with the three of them. He told them that all the professors were doing as much as they could to find the whereabouts of the two missing people; as soon as they had found anything; he would be sure to tell them.
Harry was plagued with violent nightmares depicting various ways of torture and death. He woke with a start several times during the first week she was gone, screaming loud enough to wake the other boys of his dorm. Ron would try to comfort him, but having his own fear, he rarely did much good. The only thing he could do was assure him that she was out there, and wherever she was she was alive, and most likely, well.
Hermione surfaced through the murky depths of unconsciousness again one day later. She awoke to the scraping of the door to her chamber on the stone floor, and heard the metal boots clunking against the ground again. The light from the hall outside her room rushed onto her eyelids and they burned slightly, not being used to anything but darkness for two and a half days.
"There, just throw him in there, next to the girl. God knows she probably won't survive long either."
The raspy voice clawed at her brain and she stifled a deep breath as she squeezed her eyes closed. A muffled cloth sound echoed, then the sound of struggling with fabric. Obviously someone's clothing.
A loud thud shook the ground as the boots scuffled on the floor, the man throwing something large and heavy to the land a few feet away from her. She heard a painful gagged moan, and the door creaking and scrapping closed. The light receded from her eyes and she breathed again, taking a deep gulp of air and rolling onto her back.
The opened her eyes again and noticed that the room was slightly more lit than the last time she had been in her right mind; a small, window fitted with metal bars allowed a small stream of light to enter the room from outside. She assumed it was the middle of the day from the angle of the sun from the window; she wasn't sure how long she'd been out for.
She sat up suddenly, and her head was pounded from behind with aching; she felt like a train had hit her. The pain began at her lower back and trailing up her spine and settling at the back of her head. She gave a heartfelt groan and raised a trembling hand to the back of her throbbing head. With another heavy breath, her eyes opened to slits and she allowed them to adjust to the room.
It was the first time she had actually been able to make out the finer details of the room's décor since she's arrived there; there had never been enough sunlight to make out anything more than a foot in front of her face. From what she could tell, there wasn't much to see; the room was for the most part bare, except for a small pile of worn blankets thrown in the corner opposite her, and a small bathroom with a skin and tub. The room looked as if, a few hundred years ago, it could have passed as a servant's quarters. Now, it seemed that it had been stripped of its homeliness and was now used as a prison for captives.
She could finally see the door, and noticed how it was a huge old oak door, its knob gnarled silver, which seemed to have tarnished over the years. It consisted of molding wooden boards, which with wear over the years had warped so that light flooded through the cracks, and onto the source of all the commotion.
A large heap of cloth lay warningly on the floor in front of her, the light from the door contrasting with the dark color of the fabric. It threw odd shadows along the creases and folds. Hermione couldn't remember what the men had said before they had thrown it in her cell; she had been too groggy to think clearly, much less to remember any details. She leaned forward and set herself on her hands and knees, and crawled towards the pile of cloth.
Curiosity had always been one of her most famous idiosyncrasies, and as she crept closer, it peaked. She reached out a trembling hand and pulled at a piece of the fabric. It felt damp, almost soaked. She pulled away and eyed her palm as her eyes grew wide. Crimson bled through the patterns of lines on her hand as it dripped down her wrist. Determined not to scream, she held her breath and pushed a little ways away from the bundle. What if it wasn't just a pile of fabrics? What if something was wrapped up in the cloth? What if that thing was dead? Or worse, what if that thing was alive?
Well, if it is alive, it's obviously hurt and suffering, she reasoned. Gathering her courage once more, she grabbed a handful of fabric and drew it back. She jumped as she found a pale hand buried underneath, its veins a dark purple against the sallow color of the skin. It was dyed in a dark shade of red, trails of blood flowing down the delicate fingertips and pooling in the cracks between the stones in the floor.
She took the hand into her palm and found a twisted thumb, as well as a stab wound through the bone. Thumbscrews, she thought painfully.
As she pulled back more cloth she found a broken wrist, battered arm, and a large gash across the shoulder. Whatever had happened to this person, he was beaten, and beaten badly. Hermione figured she could mend most of the wounds she had seen, but most of them would take some time to heal, even if she sewed them back together. The fabric was caught around the head, and she grasped the edge under the chin and as she cradled it in her arms as she ripped away the material.
Her fingers plunged into deep black hair as she maneuvered her hands to keep the head from falling to the floor. It rolled into the crook of her elbow and she felt for a pulse underneath the chin, pushing away more of the cloak. The face was turned down towards her lap as she tried to roll the body upright, and managed to push the body onto its side as she swept sweat-ridden strands of hair out of the face.
She couldn't stagger a gasp.
"Oh God," she breathed, her stomach doing a roll.
She realized with terror and alarm that it was the Potion Master's head that she was cradling in her lap, his mouth gagged.
She pushed herself away from him with a yelp, and let his head fall with a sickening thud to the stone floor with her departing haste. She took quick deep breaths, wheezing with the air she pulled in. Gods, what happened to him? What did they do?
Realizing she had dropped his head she gasped and quickly turned him onto his back the rest of the way and cradled him against her, removing the gag and his outer cloak so she could support him in a way that would do the least damage. She tore away his battered clothing, leaving him so he was completely naked save his pants; they were the only piece of clothing left in a somewhat manageable condition. A sort of mothering affection came over her, like a nurse tending to an injured patient. Merlin, Hermione, you're turning into more of a healer everyday, she thought to herself with sarcasm, propping his head against her shoulder as she rubbed her hands together, summoning heat.
She'd learned some healing spells that tended to heal skin wounds: ones that weren't deeper than the skin tissue. From what she had seen, though Snape had more broken bones and stab wounds than she could count, most were scraps and bruises, gashes and burns that were easy to heal, though the scabs and abrasions wouldn't fade for a week or so. These spells used heat as a main component, and using a book she's found buried behind a shelf in the Hogsmeade bookstore, she'd taught herself to conjure heat using her hands and her own body temperature, and forcing them into her palm and fingertips.
It took fairly small amounts of concentration now that she was so used to it, and she went into the familiar pattern of rubbing and working her hands together to create a burning heat.
She suddenly remembered that the patient had to be conscious for the spell to have the most effect. The brain had to be awake so that it could tell the body to help the healer in the process, using the body's own immune system to summon cells that aided in skin regrowth.
She sighed, knowing it would be painful for him to be awake with so many wounds.
She placed a warm palm against his forehead, the other supporting the back of his head.
"Ennervate!"
Snape's body jerked in her hold and he trembled. He quickly took in a rattled breath. He seemed to notice her presence, and he became frightened and tried to push away from her, only to manage in sliding out of her lap and onto the floor with a dull sound. He moaned in pain with his mouth closed as he landed on his arm, the one she suspected to be broken. He didn't open his mouth; they must have broken his jaw too, she looked down at him with sorrow. He still hadn't opened his eyes, either.
"Professor, it's me, Hermione. Please, I'll help you," she tried as she placed warm hands on his shoulders. He didn't seem to hear her; he pushed away her hands and pulled back from her with his good arm, pressing his injured arm against his torso as if to guard it.
"Professor please, you can trust me! If you keep moving, you'll only injure yourself further!" she cried as he collapsed against the wall in the corner of the room. A panic seemed to start in her. "Why don't you hear me? Why aren't you listening?"
She stopped, frozen. What if he can't hear me? she pondered. As he sat against the wall panting from the obvious effort, she crawled towards him, careful not to touch him, and snapped her fingers, right next to his ear. He didn't respond. She did it again, just in case he hadn't heard her the first time. Still, nothing.
She sat back on her heels, stunned. Only certain spells caused deafness, and she didn't know of any that had counter curses. How am I supposed to talk to him? she wondered. Think about it, Granger, her mind spat, you're smart; think of something!
She sat back and searched her brain, allowing Snape time to calm down. She had never known anyone that was deaf before. She remembered, along time ago, watching the television and seeing a documentary on a deaf mute who communicated with sign language. But he still hasn't opened his eyes, she reasoned, how am I supposed to talk to him if he refuses to open his eyes?
She reasoned that if she tried to raise his eyelids, he would shove her away, and she may even inflict more pain on him. Sparking an idea, she grabbed his hand. Writing as if her finger were a quill, she spelled out her name into his hand.
He had started to pull away, but when he realized she wasn't hurting him, he allowed her to write in his hand. Her hand was gentle and small, not abusive and rough like those of the people torturing him. She seemed to be spelling something. Hermione.
He frowned, but seemed to relax before her, and reached out to her. He needs proof it's me, she figured.
She took his hand gently and raised it to her hair, allowing him to touch the fine strands. It was frizzy, but soft and she figured he should be able to recognize her by her tresses, since he insulted them so frequently.
His fingertips grazed her curls, and he knew instantly she wasn't lying. Gods, she was alive!
You trust me? she asked slowly.
He nodded yes.
She took his hand again. Heal jaw? she wrote into his palm.
He nodded his head quickly.
She thought quickly of a spell. I only know of one to heal broken bones, she thought. She raised her hands to his cheeks, right above his jaw. "Ossificus Reparo!"
She felt his broken bones grind together as they moved back in place, and he groaned and lifted his good hand shakily to her wrist. After a few gruesome seconds, however, his jaw was back in place, good as new, though he was breathing fairly heavily.
She took to writing into his hand again. Feel better? she asked.
"My jaw is fine, it's just the rest of my body that feels like hell," he answered sarcastically, his voice still very weak.
Why don't you open eyes? she asked.
"It's… painful, and I can't see anything," he sighed.
Fearing he was injured, she sat up straight and spelled again. Open for me, please? she asked.
"No…" he whimpered.
Please? she asked again.
He exhaled heavily, but slowly lifted his eyelids. He flinched like a person would looking into direct light, though there barely was any light in the room. Hermione gasped, though, as she peered into his face. The Potion Master's usual sky black eyes were a bright transparent blue, almost gray, and as she looked at him they remained unfocused. His pupils dilated and shrunk, as if he was trying to focus on something very small, but it seemed he just couldn't make his eyes see.
She sighed. Can you see?
"No," came the blatant reply after a moment if hesitation.
Hex?
"I don't know. I was barely conscious," he said as he closed his eyes, looking wearier then before, as if he was about to fall asleep.
Want more help? I heal wounds? she asked, feeling somewhat awkward. Long questions and sentences took too much time to spell out, and she ended up sounding like she was three.
"Please," he said, his voice small.
She healed his major wounds first, though she didn't do as well of a job as she would have if she had had her wand. A few minutes of more bones scraping against each other and teeth clenching and all his bones were mended. She then moved onto his more minor injuries, repairing burns and bruises, then healing the deeper stab wounds and abrasions. She knew he was experiencing immense pain with her practice; most healers put their patients under local or full anesthetics while performing the types of charms as she. But she had no pain killers; only her hands. She worked for a good hour, finally ending her session with the stab wound on his shoulder.
He sighed in fatigue, and she knew he would probably sleep; it was best to allow his body to finish healing and recuperate after all the different things happening to him in the past two days. It was when she went to retrieve the blankets in the far corner of the room that she noticed the goose bumps along his pale skin and the shiver in his movements.
Noticing for the first time the draft that seemed to float in the room, she settled swiftly next to him, signing into his hand again. Cold?
"Very," he shivered, curling further into himself, "and exhausted."
Then sleep, she commanded. You need rest.
He seemed to want to say something smart in reply, but didn't have the energy. She wrapped his own cloak around his trembling shoulders and used the blankets for a makeshift bed, laying them down on top of each other to take the sting of cold out of the floor. Come, she rolled him onto the layers of cloth, sleep here.
"Where will you sleep?" he asked defiantly, using what little strength he had left.
I'll be fine, she replied, it's you we should worry about.
"We may not be at Hogwarts," he breathed, "but you are still my student, and therefore my… responsibility." His speech was labored; he needed desperately to sleep.
She sighed. Knowing Snape, she figured he wouldn't relent. Here, she concluded, shimmying onto the blanket next to him, I'll sleep next to you, make sure you're ok.
"Hermione," he said warningly.
My body heat will keep you warm, she answered. She placed a finger against his lips to silence him. "Shhh," she cooed, even though he couldn't hear her, "It will be fine soon, don't worry."
Despite his earlier protests, he curled up next to her, drinking in the heat she gave off. He felt so stupid, wishing he had never gotten into this predicament, but she was so soft and comfortable to rest against… he was too tired to fight anything.
The evil façade of the horrible, vile, intolerable man that he presented in class slowly melted away under her caress, and he, little by little, found himself unable to stand up to her forcing him to slumber.
He was dimly aware of her wrapping her arm under his head, cushioning him against her shoulder so he didn't have to lie against the flat blankets. He felt wonderful, safe in someone's embrace, even if it was that of a mere student. She was the only person who seemed to care about his well being, and was able to end his suffering. And the warmth; he couldn't even begin to describe the sensation. He pressed closer to her, finally feeling a sense of security that he had never felt before.
She slowly stroked his hair, trailing her fingers through the soft strands. She could remember when her mother used to do it to her when she was little and afraid of something, and it always made her feel calm and safe. When Snape pulled closer to her, she suspected he felt something of the same sort.
His breathing slowed to a normal pace and he pulled his cloak tighter around himself, pulling closer to her as warmth spread through him. Sighing once more, he relaxed into a state of peaceful sleep.
Feel better, Professor. I'll find a way out of this, she promised, even though her mind was the only one to hear it, before she drifted into a calmer state of sleep than before.
There! Happy now? A little taste of what was in the summary. I was really unhappy with how this came out. It really sucks. But I have no idea how to rewrite this because fluff was never one of my fine points. Sorry to all the people who expected something really fantastic out of this chapter. It probably doesn't meet up to your standards, but I really can't do anything better. I apologize.
If everyone hates it a lot, I'll try and revise it, but I won't promise anything; I'm not a romance writer.
Thanks to all the people who emailed me and wanted me to finish up this chapter. I don't think many people read my last chapter because I uploaded it when ff.net was having trouble with its hard disks. I didn't get many reviews for that one; I hope it wasn't because it was really terrible. Tell me if it was, ok?
Anyway, thanks for reading up this far. I hope that what I've written has provided you with some entertainment for the time being.
Next chapter will be out: God knows when.
Remember: Email and Review!
~Shorty