Tuesday Morning

It was nearly forty-eight hours later when Hermione finally fluttered her eyelids open to the light streaming in her window. A dark figure sat between her and the light. She blinked several times to clear her dry eyes, and soon the dark blotch in front of her turned into a figure she recognized. She calmly closed her eyes again as she adjusted to the aches and pains and the restraint of the bandages. Her fingers found their way to the fresh linen that was piled high on her bosom.

"These aren't nearly as nice as the ones you fashioned," she whispered, surprised that her voice allowed her even that.

Snape did not even look up from his papers. "I shall pass on the complement to Madame Malkin."

"That was excellent quick thinking," she said with a rasp. It took her two throat clearings, but finally she sounded like herself again.

"You owe me a new traveling cloak," he answered flatly, and he flourished his quill a bit as he signed his name at the bottom of his parchment.

"Reports?"

"Yes," he replied, finally looking up to meet her face for the first time since she woke. "And if you think two drams of dreamless sleep are going to get you out of yours, you're sorely mistaken."

"'Sorely' would be the word, Severus." Hermione made a move to push herself up but she stopped suddenly and clutched at her chest. "Oh!"

Snape was at her side instantly, easing her back into her pillows. "Stop being foolish and lay down. You can dictate your work to me if it means your wounds don't open up. I'll have you know I spent the longest ten minutes of my life working on them."

"You're using your professor's voice; it must be very serious."

Once he settled her, he returned to his chair with an air of being quite put out by having to rise. Hermione looked around. "Home again, naturally. Honestly, I don't understand why I don't keep a toothbrush and a change of clothes here."

"Here" was room 47 in St. Mungo's, a corner room with two sets of windows, one facing east, the other north. She lay on an iron framed bed painted with so many layers of off-white that the corners and edges of the metal had rounded. The matching off-white wooden dresser and wooden chairs gave the room a less medical feel and more of an air of recuperation. The last time they'd been in this place, though, it had been Snape who had been recovering. He didn't care for the faux cheeriness of the room. He much preferred convalescing in the solitude of his own bedroom to the bustle of the hospital, as he reminded Hermione at least a dozen times when he had been the one lying there.

Working for the Ministry as Aurors had been, in Hermione's words, the best and worst decisions they had ever made. They had staved off much of the ennui and after-war letdown that had plagued so many other witches and wizards, and they had deftly avoided being delegated "war heroes," good for not much more than being invited to parties and fundraisers but never achieving fulfillment of any kind. Of course that decision had landed them in St. Mungo's a combined 13 times, a Ministry record best. Not even Harry and Ron could boast more than 9 between them, and they were always getting into something. Ron had once said that meant they were either very good or very bad at their work, but Hermione had just stuck her tongue out at him and dumped her reports on his desk with a thunk.

She was just about to doze off again when a soft knock came at the door. George Weasley appeared there in a surprisingly understated brown suit, holding an armful of flowers.

"Am I interrupting?"

"No, please," Hermione said graciously, "come in."

George smiled at Hermione and gave a respectful nod to Severus. "Snape."

Snape nodded back but calmly returned to shuffling his papers.

"Thanks for the visit, George. However did you know where to find me?" she laughed.

"Well, I just asked the front desk if the Snape-Granger suite was occupied, and here we are." George placed the large bouquet of fluxhue roses in a water pitcher on Hermione's side table. "C'mon, Hermione, one of you is in this room often enough. You're two stays away from having a historic plaque put up." He waved his wand in a circle around the roses. As they bloomed they began to individually fade slowly from one color to another. George rewarded his effort by falling lazily into the second chair at the foot of Hermione's bed.

"Absolutely beautiful, thank you. And you're not wrong. I was just saying to Severus that I ought to keep an overnight bag here."

"Ah, say, did it ever occur to you that you ought to stop getting nearly murdered when you go out dark wizard hunting? Or are you not the brightest witch of your age anymore?"

"Har," she drawled, smoothing out her bedspread primly.

Snape, who had said nothing since George had arrived save for a civil nod, laid his papers aside and stood. "Excuse me," he said, and then he left the room.

George watched him go with a raised eyebrow. "What's old Snape's problem?"

"Oh, you've known him long enough to know the answer to that is far too long to discuss." And she quickly changed the subject to something unrelated. But three-odd years of working with Severus Snape had taught her a few things. He wasn't bored and he wasn't mad. He was upset. Well, she decided, she'd deal with that later.