AN: My apologies if I have some inconsistencies in capitalization here and there. I do try very hard to be consistent. I also try to follow the canon spelling/formatting of 'verse-specific words. You are welcome to mention this in you reviews, but please be kind. I am happy to edit it! Also, my Latin is extremely limited to religion class, so if you have a kind suggestion on how to improve a phrase, I'd like to hear it!
Wednesday, around 7pm
Hermione, for once, had taken her doctor's advice, taken all her potions, and fallen into a very restful sleep not even a half hour after Severus had deposited her at home. When she awoke a solid eight hours later, her bandages needed changing and her chest needed a generous application of zingermint.
She set to work in the bathroom preparing the solution, then took a hot shower while she waited for the ingredients to properly coalesce. She set herself to auto pilot, deciding that there was no use for deep thought while she was still half asleep. Wash, fresh clothes, dinner, more sleep, in that order.
Hair washed and wounds properly cleaned of any dried blood, she wrapped a towel around her and applied the thick, cold gel to her chest. It made her whole body break out into goosebumps, but her chest immediately felt as though a heavy booted foot had been lifted from it.
Satisfied with her disheveled but clean self, Hermione headed for the kitchen for tea and possibly something not too stale in the pantry. Instead she found her kettle had grown a ring of mold inside, and what she had thought was a tin of Jammie Dodgers just held three ancient-looking fortune cookies. "Oh, come on," she chastised herself, tossing the tin on the counter.
Spinner's End, the same
Snape had learned a very long time ago to eat and sleep when one had the opportunity because one's circumstances could change in an instant when one was a spy. Things didn't change when he became an Auror. Sleep came just as rarely now as it did in Albus's or Voldemort's employ, what with some fresh hell opening up ever since Potter showed up. And despite meals being served like clockwork at the school, there was no guarantee that his activities in the shadows would coincide with the dinner bell.
He was well-conditioned for the life of an Auror. It was just like being a spy, only you were allowed to have personal effects and were given Sundays off when you weren't actively working a case. Not that he ever took Sundays off when he had them. But it was promising to know it was a possibility sometime, maybe once, before he died.
But at the moment he was asleep on a sofa, a case file under his feet, and the remains of his cloak wadded up for a pillow. And he snored.
When Snape awoke just after half seven, it was with a crick in his neck and an angry rumble from his stomach. He realized he'd broken one of his rules when he got home, to eat when given the chance. But to be fair, there was never food in his kitchen. There was plenty to get at the Ministry, though. And it was just late enough that nearly everyone would be gone for the day.
That settled that. He stuffed a few folders Kingsley wanted from his desk into his bag. He had never bothered to have his grate connected to the Floo network; he liked having his own space, even if it was this terrible old house full of shitty memories. A quick spin and he was gone.
But Snape did not land in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic as intended. Instead he found himself in the alley behind the warehouse flats where Granger lived.
"Dammit," he hissed in disgust and irritation.
His mind had seemingly been on dinner. But it wasn't, and it hadn't been, and he had to stop pretending it was before he ended up splinched. He cursed again, focused on the atrium, and turned on his heel.
He landed this time where he had intended to. There was no one in the atrium, and only the bubbling and splashing of the new fountain greeted him. It was late enough that there were no memos floating in the elevators. Somewhere he heard a maintenance worker whistling as he went about his repairs, but it was otherwise deserted. He headed to his office that he shared with Hermione but he found their cupboard was bare. The elves were always so good about tucking snacks away for the Aurors as they were the busiest employees, but for some reason there wasn't a tea bag or tin of soup anywhere. He briefly considered poking into Potter and Weasley's stash but thought better of it. No, it wasn't worth running into either of them. He'd just have to risk the cantina, or suck it up and visit a pub. It was the middle of the week so maybe it wouldn't be too busy. He groaned at his prospects.
He should just go back to Granger's, he thought. She had insisted that she'd had all that she needed but he knew that was as unlikely as his kitchen being hospitable. She was probably awake by now, or would be by the time he'd make it there with supper. Besides, she ought to be checked on. She'd taken a great deal of damage. Had he had it his way he would have made her stay at St. Mungo's for another month just to teach her a lesson.
He wasn't sure why he was still mad at her. He would say, of course, that she was being impertinent, unnecessarily risky. It was her fault, obviously, if only she'd see reason. But nothing had ever changed in all the years he had known her, however superficially when she was his student. She was exactly the same. Over confident to a fault. But that was one reason she was such a successful Auror.
He had to put her out of his mind. After her abrupt dismissal of him yesterday morning, it was obvious she didn't want his assistance this time around. No doubt she wished to be spared another lecture. Well, he thought, if she listened to reason, perhaps he wouldn't have to lecture her so much.
No matter. At least she was home now, under healer's orders. But she was decidedly Gryffindor in every respect. She was brave and noble to a fault, but dammit if it didn't set him on edge when she charged into battle. She, Harry, Ronald, and Draco had foregone the formal training and apprenticeship to become an Auror, as did he. Kingsley was desperate to restaff the Aurory and there seemed to be no better candidates than the five of them. And while it had been a strange first few months for him, finally playing a hero after so long playing the villain, they had each settled into their new roles. It was easy to be distracted by the cause, the goal of pursuing dark wizards, than it was old petty disagreements and mistrusts proven wrong.
Not that it has been easy, of course, to get on together. Granger was a challenge. In plain words, she drove him mad. She talked less than she used to, held her tongue and didn't answer every question aloud, so that was good. She'd been made that way, he realized, by her parents and her very nature, to have an enthusiasm for learning and information. It had made her a successful pupil and an outstanding Auror. But dammit if she didn't get herself injured every few months because of her eagerness.
He couldn't deny that he'd had his share of injuries, of course. His arm had nearly been blown clean off, and he still had a bit of a limp from the fall he'd taken in February. He'd nearly drowned as well, and that still stuck with him sometimes. But all in all, he'd never almost bled out in a forest during a hail storm. He fussed after her, and he bossed her about, but she was an excellent Auror.
And he couldn't put her out of his mind.
He shut his eyes, crossed his arms, and sighed deeply. Well, even if it made her mad at least they'd have dinner sorted, he reasoned.
Snape split the difference between the Ministry cantina and a pub and stopped at a Greggs not far from Hermione's. He was still set in his wizarding ways, broody, and anti-social, but he had stepped out into the world now that he was living a life less structured. He didn't care for cheerful places, he never had. And he didn't go in for fancy sorts of eateries. But the convenience of a chippy or a kebab place was preferable to starving at any rate. Anyway, he was reasonably sure it was down to changing a bit with the times or start cooking, and that was right out. He could navigate a Weatherspoon's if absolutely pressed.
Greggs was too bright for his liking, and he always had to remember to procure some Muggle money before walking into a place like that. Eventually he made his choices from the fluorescent-lit displays and paid as always with larger bills, counting on the clerk to count back the change properly. Three coins, that's all a monetary system needed. What the hell was fifty pee anyway?
Armed with a peace offering of sandwiches and sausage rolls, Snape walked down the long alley which led to her door, second from the last. He stood at her door, dingy blue and white where the paint had chipped, then knocked. Not even five seconds after he lowered his hand did the door fly open. Hermione looked confused and her hair was wet. She stared at him as if trying to determine if he was really there or if she was imagining him.
"Are you quite all right, Granger?"
She seemed to come around. "Perfectly! Yes. Come in! How did you know I wanted dinner just now?"
Snape entered and turned to look at her with a small shrug. "Is it not dinner time?"
"Ta, you're grand, come in, then! I was just getting up the nerve to either call Nando's or order a pizza. You've perfect timing, as usual." She hurried to move some work things off her coffee table so they could sit. Unlike Snape who owned three, Hermione had no table besides this one. Her kitchen counter, if one could call the meter and a half of particle board and laminate that separated her sink and hob from her sofa and bookcase that, was usually covered in some kind of writings or case files or tomes.
Well, she seemed in a much better mood than earlier. More welcoming, anyway. "How are you feeling, Ms. Granger?"
She dumped a pile of case files and parchment on to another similar pile and he winced at her poor housekeeping. "I slept, you'd be so proud of me. Since I got home 'til maybe half an hour ago. I just took my potions, before you ask, yes, I'm on schedule."
"I was not going to ask."
"You most certainly were. Come now, sit. I've got only water, I'm completely out of everything else."
"I brought you a box of tea bags. I knew you wouldn't have anything you needed," he added with a little I-told-you-so sneer.
"Well, you'd better keep a tab," she instructed as she pulled cups from the drain board. "I'm going to settle up with you when I get back to work." She turned to get water but found him behind her.
"You needn't bother to serve me. Sit down and eat." He put his hands out for the cups in a way that said there'd be no arguing about it this time and she wordlessly capitulated. "Good girl."
She rolled her eyes loud enough to be heard but sat herself down and began opening the bag he'd brought. Two sandwiches, some sausage rolls, a giant salad, a few pastries, and a box of tea, which she threw overhanded to Snape. "Your eyes are bigger than either of our stomachs."
"Eat what you'd like; the rest is for breakfast. Or I'll get you something else in the morning."
"Aren't you going in to work?" she asked, tucking into a sausage roll.
"Yes. But I can make sure you're set up properly before going in."
She watched him shake his head in despair over the state of the kettle, then fill up the cups with water from the tap. He waved his hands over them and in moments they were bubbling and producing steam. He dropped a bag into each and brought them over, handing one to her.
"Cheers. This is really nice, thank you."
"Think nothing of it." He pulled out a turkey sandwich and unwrapped it. They ate in silence for a few minutes. She thought about how odd it was to see the terrifying Professor Severus Snape eat a cello-wrapped sandwich from a convenience shop and she nearly laughed. But it would make him so self-conscious, she knew. As much as he drove her legitimately mad, she didn't think it right to antagonize him. But she was tempted though.
She took a sip of her tea to wash down her heavenly sausage roll, but suddenly gagged and sputtered. But no, she wasn't choking, nor was the tea too hot. She couldn't breath, couldn't seem to swallow. The cup fell to the floor and she clutched her chest.
He was next to her instantly, his hand on her shoulder and his eyes on hers, evaluating her. "Granger?! Anapneo!" he declared.
Her other hand went up and paused as she tried to inhale again, but after a second it clutched at his. Nothing was changing. The pain, the pressure, the overwhelming strain, grew greater like a tightening vice.
He pulled his wand from his sleeve and shouted, "Suo custodiat cor tuum!"
Immediately Hermione was thrown against the back cushion of the sofa and she gave a pained gasp. "Severus," she wheezed, reaching again for his hand.
"Calm, calm," he said quietly. "You can breathe?"
She nodded, finally making eye contact with him. "Yes," she rasped. "Oh, my God."
"Was it the food? The tea?"
"No, not at all." She broke into a sudden coughing fit and clutched her chest now with both hands. "Fuck," she wheezed, doubling over.
He put his hands to her shoulders. "Show me the wound."
There was little modesty in the field, and he'd seen it all before as he'd knit her back together when she'd been so grievously injured. Without a second thought she pulled up her shirt and let him inspect her chest. Her breathing was labored and she felt faint. Her head lolled to the side and she winced in pain.
"Dammit," he muttered. "Accio tea towel!" A fresh towel flew from a kitchen drawer to his hand, and he folded so he could put pressure on the spot that was seeping fresh blood. "Stay very still, Granger," he whispered. The tip of his wand rested gently but firmly on her breast bone as he closed his eyes and concentrated. "Subsisto effundatur sanguis!"
Immediately the flow of blood subsided and he could remove the towel from her chest long enough to check his spellwork. She began to cough, but sat up without assistance. He hastily pulled her shirt down but held the towel to her heart from the outside. "Ms. Granger, can you stand? We are going to St. Mungo's."
She shook her head and coughed again. "No, no, I'm all right."
"You are most certainly not!" he insisted. "You could not breathe, and your cursed chest was bleeding."
"Severus, stop, let me catch my breath." Her hand replaced his to hold the towel to her body, and she shifted to lay eyes-closed against the corner of the sofa. It took all his restraint not to scoop her up in his arms and apparate immediately to St. Mungo's. She would never forgive him, but she was being foolish, he was sure. Still he waited, as she had asked, on edge, dreading the inevitable relapse.
And by and by it did not come but his concern did not yield. "If you will not go to the hospital, then I will stay here the night."
She scrunched her face in irritation and curled up tighter into a ball. "Please don't talk to me right now," she said between clenched teeth. "Just give me a minute, would you?"
He softened and sat back down next to her. "Of course. I apologize." Her right hand held the rag to her chest and her left reached out for his. He held it gently. Now that she was breathing and stable, he realized his own hands were shaking. He willed himself to steady them and began to rub the back of her hand comfortingly to mask his own nerves. It had been like this the night she was attacked. He'd worked without thinking, and when he was done and she was stable, when she was in the care of the healers, that was when he felt it. The shock set in and his own heart strained.
She was breathing with intention now, counting three seconds before exhaling, three more before inhaling again. Her color was back and she no longer looked pained. Her hand held his tightly and after a few more moments she released him and made to sit herself up. Once she was comfortable she opened her eyes and smiled up at him. "You're paler than usual," she smiled.
His countenance broke. From concern and appraising it cracked into a nervous smile he could not contain. "Ms. Granger, of course."
"I suspect I was worse off in the woods?"
"The lack of hail did make it easier this time."
"You didn't even lose your cloak."
"The night is young," he shrugged.
She chuckled lightly but coughed a bit at the end of it. He moved ever closer, touched her forearm. "If you promise not to take me back to the hospital, you can stay."
"I promise I will not take you back to the hospital- unless you get worse," he added. He was not glaring now; his eyes were wide and genuine, waiting for her to agree.
She looked at him under heavy lids. "Agreed."
"What can I do for you? Your potions? Water?"
She glanced tiredly at her bedroom. "Will you wait for me while I freshen up, and I'll put on another dose before bed?"
"Of course I will wait," he assured, as if there was any question.
Her hand slipped from his and she slowly got up and headed to her bedroom. As he watched her go he felt a sudden wave of panic that he had not made the right decision. He ought to convince her, ought to take her by the hand and insist. But she would never see it his way. She rarely did. So he forced himself to sit on the couch while he heard the shower squeak on. He busied himself with putting away the food that hadn't yet been touched, cleaned up the cup and tea she had spilt, and disposed of the bloody tea towel in the bin in the far end of the kitchen. It was all he could do to not walk into her bathroom and insist, positively insist, that she ought to go right this minute to the hospital.
