Thank you for your patience, I was sick again, and then a storm put out the Internet. I will finish this, fear not.
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Hermione approached waking, but only long enough to feel like she had actually become a part of the mattress; then she drifted back into oblivion. The second brush at wakefulness let her turn, and, in doing so, she remotely registered that the bed felt different. She drifted off again. The third time, light was coming through her eyelids, which she began to open. Something was –
She screamed and moved so quickly to the head of the bed that the end of the metal frame flew slightly off the floor. She screamed repeatedly, unable to stop herself, ready for fight or flight.
The person staring at her from the foot of the bed, looked familiar, but it didn't make sense. Was she delusional? Was she dreaming? Where was -
"Hermione … Hermione it's Poppy. You're at Hogwart's."
Hermione was frightened and desperately trying to clear her head. This doesn't make sense. Did Voldemort make a move? What if this was an illusion, and they were trying to draw her out?
What if they're doing this to her because Severus is dead … Oh God, where is Snape?
She dartingly looked around the room for anything to ground her. Her wand, there it was on the nightstand. She grabbed it and pointed it at the intruder, registering that the feeling of the wood in her hand was like slipping on a favorite glove.
"Where is Snape? What have you done with him?" Hermione said desperately.
"Nothing dear. He brought you here yesterday afternoon." The woman said calmly, trying to defuse the situation.
"Now I know you're lying. He couldn't just drop me off."
"Well, of course you're right." The woman said placating. "I received an owl yesterday morning telling me to be out on the edge of the grounds, outside the wards, after 1PM. It was from Severus."
"But he couldn't just arrive here."
"He didn't. It was a middle-aged Indian man about 5'9'' with a note and jar."
"I don't know any Indian ma… The grocery deliveryman … Why would…"
"I do not think this was a grocery deliveryman, dear. I believe it was Severus."
Hermione was calming down, trying to put the pieces together and solve the mystery.
"Wait. How do I know you're not polyjuiced and this," waiving her hand at her surroundings, "is not just some type of an illusion?"
The woman who claimed to be Poppy Pomfrey looked her straight in the eye and smiled.
This scared Hermione and she pointed her wand straight at her. The older woman sat down, never taking her eyes off the girl in front of her.
"In your 2nd year you turned into somewhat of a cat after brewing polyjuice."
Hermione moved back, pointed her wand and said vehemently, "That doesn't prove a thing. You could have gotten that information from anyone."
"True," said the woman calmly, "but only one person, besides you, knows that during the throws of recovery, you had to wear adult diapers because you wet yourself every time you coughed up a hairball."
Hermione froze and then examined the woman in front of her as if looking through her face into her soul. "Poppy."
"Yes dear."
Hermione sprang into Poppy's arms, hugging her desperately. The months of not seeing people that she knew washed over her; she began to weep uncontrollably.
Poppy adjusted their position for comfort and simply held her. After about fifteen minutes, Hermione was calm enough to speak.
"Poppy," Hermione said wiping her eyes on the sheets; she was somewhat manically giddy. "Can I call you Poppy? You said once I could do it in private."
"Of course," she said handing her a box of tissues. "I believe that was agreed upon in your second hospitalization. Thank goodness that time, your bladder had been petrified along with the rest of you." Poppy said this with a gleam of mischief, which quickly turned to triumph, as she saw her goal achieved in a giggle and smile from Hermione.
"I hope that the state of my bladder, flabby or frozen, has stayed a part of patient confidentiality," she said cheekily.
"I have never told a soul," she said with a smile. Then suddenly getting quite serious and putting her hand on Hermione's she said, "I never tell private matters of a patient. You know that truly, don't you dear?" Poppy looked at her, searching her eyes for validation and went on, "Oh, I would keep the House Heads up to speed on status, and when appropriate, I might give thoughts to possible 'origins of occurrences' and so forth, but not the private things, no one need know those."
Hermione looked down at their entwined hands, "But what if they told you something disturbing?"
"What do you mean-- like killing themselves, abuse at home? Of course, I handled this type of thing carefully, trying to keep key people alert without giving any information away. I admit that was harder to navigate, but I often felt I had covered myself by pairing students with counselors that would come and meet here once a week."
"I didn't know counselors came here."
Poppy just nodded her head. "Now," she scooted herself to face Hermione a bit more, "this brings me to a question, my dear-- the answer to which, if you choose to share, will remain confidential." Then Poppy cocked her head and said, "Who were you breastfeeding dear?"
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Severus sat on the bed in her room. He hadn't intended to be there. After he gave her to Poppy he had weaved his way back, apparating twice before arriving at Spinners End. Then, when he had gotten to the top of the stairs, he'd turned right instead of going straight; the breakfast was still set up where he had left it. He mused that, for a plan made this morning while staring into her eyes, it had gone well.
He had felt her get into bed with him and was turning over towards her before he could even think about it. He knew this was the last time one way or the other. It would be so easy to take her, but he had already taken so much. She would think she was offering, but he would know the truth.
He loved the way she smelled. He had taken her breasts and devoured them, smothering them with kisses and caresses. He'd suckled, not caring the sounds he was making. He had lovingly examined them, and for the first time truly registered the presence of the stretch marks that she had incurred on his behalf. He had traced them with his finger. There was a salve he'd made, that would make the lines disappear and would firm the skin. It would be as if it never happened. The thought of her forgetting ... the thought of erasing their … made him sick. Nevertheless, she had a whole life ahead of her outside of this godforsaken house, and he wasn't going to have her carrying around unnecessary reminders for the rest of it.
It was odd. For a while, in the beginning, they, her breast, had been separate from her. They were his friends. They were feeding him. They were separate from her other healing actions. Then suddenly, on the third day, after she lifted him up the stairs and moved about the room with such efficiency and grace, the friendship, healing, and feeding all combined into one. That one was … Hermione: his Hermione.
He wanted to thank her, to tell her that she had saved his life … his soul … in so many ways. He had wanted to tell her to get dressed, and they would leave together and never look back. They had entered eternity in that lasting gaze and made love.
In those last seconds, everything he needed to do had become clear. He had watched her leave the bed, memorizing every aspect of her body. Then, over the next hour, he'd formed the details of his plan with different "if – then" scenarios.
He knew she would fall asleep again; she always did. So, he'd waited. Then he had gone and prepared a breakfast of croissants and her favorite, fresh squeezed orange juice. In the latter, he'd put enough drops of Dreamless Sleep Potion to keep her out for at least 24 hours.
Then he'd brought it up to her room, transforming a chair and other items from his room into an elegantly set breakfast table. He'd mentally labored over a rose in a vase. It would look nice, but he just couldn't bring himself to… He compromised with a basket of Ivy. He had then put a stasis spell on everything, made some noise to wake her, and apparated away.
When he returned from sending the owl to Poppy, Hermione was out. Her head was on the table and her left arm and shoulder were drooping off. He'd transformed her pajamas into sweat pants and a shirt. Then he carried her downstairs, placing her on the couch. He'd gone to the lab and taken the hair he had gotten from the grocer and put it in the potion. (He regularly took hairs from people and catalogued them for future polyjuice use.) He'd gagged as he drank the fluid. Then when the transformation was complete, he had grabbed the scar cream and gone upstairs. He'd looked around one last time. There was something… Oh yes, he remembered. He went over to his desk opened the top drawer, and took out the ruler that was there, and with a Finite Incantatem her wand had appeared. He'd then scooped her up, looked down at her, and, involuntarily drawing her close, apparated away.
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The 'categorized hairs' concept I took from a one shot on Ashwinder – Post war, Hermione is a prostitute - If you know the title and/or author, I will be glad to credit them.
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