Chapter Twenty-Two
The Mediwitch pursed her lips while she examined the pulsing blue and green light that hovered over Hermione's sternum.
"An Arithmatically based spell, you say?" Her tone was heavy with disapproval. "Your friend was right to bring you in; messing around with experimental magic can be very dangerous."
Hermione nodded listlessly. Since waking up in St Mungo's, she had been inundated by returning memories and it felt as if her mind was having to stretch uncomfortably to hold them all. Perhaps it would not have been so bad had they arrived instantly, or at a constant rate, but some recollections were trickling towards her with the all the pace and cloying consistency of syrup while others hurtled towards her with staggering, overwhelming speed. She focussed on the dancing balls of light and let the witch's admonishments wash over her.
"You were very lucky, young lady. It seems that you're only mildly magically depleted. Though what you were doing trying to mess with Master level spells is beyond me." She flicked her wand and the light suddenly vanished, causing Hermione to flinch. "A Healer will be in shortly to see you. They'll probably want to keep you in overnight for observation."
Her face softened slightly and she absently patted Hermione on the knees before picking up her chart. "You need to take better care of yourself," she advised.
Hermione swallowed thickly and nodded. The gesture had been so reminiscent of Dr Harrison that for a moment she had been able to imagine herself back in 1970s Manchester, dressed in a blue cotton nightgown rather than a faded hospital gown.
She kept hoping that her memories of the spell would start to fade as her old life returned to her, growing hazy or dreamlike as they ebbed away, but instead they remained, cruel in their clarity. She squeezed her eyes shut tight but felt the tears form regardless, and her throat began to ache with the effort of holding back her grief.
The door clicked behind the Mediwitch and Hermione allowed herself to draw a great, shuddering breath as she willed herself to calm down. It would seem Ginny hadn't divulged the true nature of the spell she had attempted and she had no plans to admit to it herself. She just needed to hold herself together long enough to be discharged.
The door opened again and Hermione opened her eyes to watch as Ginny slipped noiselessly into the room. Despite everything Hermione was forced to smile; having spent so much time with Ron as a child, it amazed her that a Weasley could do anything quite so quietly. The redhead carefully closed the door and moved to perch on the edge of the bed, her face pale and concerned.
"You've been crying," she observed.
Hermione fidgeted under her gaze.
"I can't seem to stop," she whispered. "He may have been dead for months, but I only saw him yesterday."
Ginny sucked in a breath. "It really worked?"
Hermione pulled her handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and dabbed at her eyes. Fresh tears gathered almost instantly. "I don't know," she admitted. "I saw him, if that's what you mean. But I never knew why I was there. It's still all confused." Her voice broke over the final word and she covered her face as her shoulders began to shake. She couldn't seem to breathe properly and she began to gasp. She could hear the hysteria growing with each frantic breath, but seemed incapable of calming herself. Everything that had happened had somehow become a physical thing, weighing on her chest and constricting her throat. It hurt.
The bed dipped as Ginny moved closer and she found herself pulled into a firm embrace. Ginny was murmuring something to her, but she couldn't focus on the words. Instead, she concentrated on the feeling of being held. After relying so completely on his touch to keep her safe, she still found genuine comfort and security in the contact. She let herself relax against the younger girl and after a while the tears abated enough for her to ask "How long was I gone?"
"You just seemed to flicker, then fall," came the reply. "It took no time at all. It wasn't until you hit the floor that I even realised something was wrong." Using her wand she dampened a cloth and held it out for Hermione to wipe her face. "I feel so guilty," she frowned. "If I'd honestly thought that there was any way the spell could work, I wouldn't have let you try it. This spell never works."
She reached inside her bag and pulled out a heavy-looking ring binder overflowing with papers. "I didn't think even you would have the endurance or patience needed to actually configure the spell. I just thought it was best to simply let you have your head and hope you ran out of steam." She dropped the folder onto Hermione's knees with a soft thwump. "I suppose I should have known you wouldn't give up."
Hermione opened the folder and leafed through the pages covered in her careful, rounded script. Endless facts converted into figures and twisted through equations, pages and pages of meticulously researched and revised notes. There, clipped to the first page, was the newspaper clipping that had started it all; a half page article torn from The Quibbler. It was creased from countless re-readings and, staring at it now, Hermione could remember each and every one; could remember that feeling of hope and frustration and the overwhelming need to act. How many times had she stared at this piece of paper and yearned?
Septimus Proust, a retired Arithmancy lecturer, had spoken out vociferously against the power shift that had occurred following Dumbledore's murder and widely announced his intention to use the ancient spell to save the wizard. His disappearance a few months after the article's publication had been heralded by some as a sign of at least partial success. Later disclosures of a Dark Mark seen floating over his abandoned house suggested otherwise. Yet his speculation about the spell had been enough to spark a brief, intense national interest. Having spent most of the year hiding out of sight, it hadn't been until much later that she had even heard of the spell.
She turned her attention back to the folder and sighed. It was so hard to recall how she had felt when was making all these notes. Professor Snape's ignoble death had been a tragedy, but it had been part of the general sadness of war. Now, each of these meticulously recorded facts about his life seemed intensely personal.
Turning another page she found a new set of notes. There was less writing, more numbers, but the new calculations seemed to focus on herself.
"Everything was exact," Ginny confirmed. "Calculated down to the last part; your weight, how much you could carry. It was all done with scientific precision, save one part. The final year was too confused. No one knew when he was in his office or visiting the Ministry. He used to prowl round the castle at night and the Carrows used to hang around him like flies. We didn't know when it would be safe to contact him."
"So, unable to key the spell to a certain time or date, I asked to be sent to when he needed me most?"
"Yes."
Hermione laughed. It was such a simple thing; such a ridiculously simple oversight. The laughter caught in her throat.
"But, Ginny! That was all the time! I met him as a child, as a teenager, when he started teaching. I only spent a few hours with him as headmaster and I didn't even remember that I had to warn him!" She scrubbed furiously at her face. "I didn't even know who he was."
Ginny drew a long breath through her teeth and stared at her in silence as she considered what she had just been told. For all her fiery temper and Weasley practicality, it was her ability to sit back and reason that had finally drawn Hermione into a true friendship with the girl. Yet there where times like this when her ability to see into the heart of things was unnerving.
Eventually she reached out and grasped one of Hermione's damp hands. "I know it's difficult, Hermione, but you mustn't blame yourself. I think the spell deliberately removed your memories of him."
"But why?" Hermione demanded, gesturing at the folder on her lap. "The basis of this spell is the desire to help, to set things right. How could I do that if I didn't even know why I was there?"
Ginny stared at their interlinked fingers, obviously uncomfortable. "I'm guessing it wasn't just when he needed you; it was how he needed you. I think the spell realised that you had . . . conflicted feelings about him and decided to let you start again. Everybody had an opinion of Severus Snape, none of them even close to the truth. You got to be his fresh start, someone who would see him, not the Slytherin or the Spy."
Hermione dropped her gaze to the folder on her lap once more. If that was true, then the spell had certainly succeeded. She had trusted him instinctively. They'd been friends. Or at least they had until he had become aware of her true identity. Her mind flinched away from that final memory of him: him hating her.
"It didn't matter though," she realised. "He still died."
"Don't say that," cautioned Ginny. "I reckon you did more than you realised. I bet that even when you met him as Headmaster you were still his friend, weren't you? You were probably the only person left who still had faith in him. That matters."
Hermione nodded, blinking back fresh tears. It was hard to believe that any spell could have made her forget someone as brave, kind and loyal as Ginny Weasley. Some of her reawakening memories were terribly painful, but this recent, intense friendship had been blissful to recall. Her friends were something to cherish.
"Harry," she murmured. The spell had caused her to forget him, too. No wonder she had been so quick to run to James Potter and so devastated when she had realised he wasn't the person she sought. "God, I miss him."
"And Ron?" Ginny pressed, taking this apparent non sequitur in stride. "What about him?"
That memory was less comfortable, but no less intense. "Him too," she admitted glumly.
"They'll want to see you," Ginny warned. "Everyone will. They'll be frantic when they hear you ended up here. I can stall them for a bit if you like..."
"Please. I don't think I'm quite ready to see anybody just yet. Not while I'm still working out what happened."
There was a perfunctory knock at the door before it opened to admit an elderly wizard in Healer's robes. "Miss Granger," he beamed, apparently not noticing her tear-streaked face. "It isn't often I make the trip up to the fourth floor but I wanted the chance to say hello in person. I'm Hippocrates Smethwyck."
The answer came to her immediately as did her manners. "It's lovely to meet you, sir. Healer Smethwyck oversaw your father's case following Nagini's attack, Ginny," she explained by way of an introduction. "He was kind enough to let me see the case notes for my project."
"Ah, Miss Weasley." He shook Ginny's hand before turning back to Hermione. "The Arithmantic Concurrencies Amongst the Venoms of Magical Creatures, wasn't it?"
"Close enough."
"Fascinating subject. Bit advanced for your first year's project, I would have thought. It wasn't until Mr Weasley's attack that I'd even heard of one venom being used in lieu of another. Absolutely Fascinating."
Ginny stood up, laughing. "That's probably my cue to leave." She placed a kiss on Hermione's forehead before heading for the door. "Let me know what they decided, alright? If you need anyone to collect you, I'll come right back."
She paused as she looked at the ring binder on Hermione's lap, obviously uncertain if it was a good idea to leave it behind. Catching her eye, she nodded sharply and slipped from the room as quietly as she had entered.
Hermione closed the folder and pushed it away. "I always meant to ask, is the Healer who provided the potion still working here? I would love to speak with them."
His face suddenly became serious. "I suppose I can tell you. We only kept it private because Dumbledore was so certain that You-Know-Who was back. It wasn't a Healer who created the potion. It was Professor Snape."
He jumped slightly as a loud ticking noise filled the room. Pulling a rather battered-looking timepiece from his pocket he squinted at its face and frowned. "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me," he apologised. "I'd hoped to have a bit more time to chat. Maybe when you're feeling better, eh?" He took her hand and shook it enthusiastically. "I look forward to seeing your final paper, Miss Granger. Fascinating subject, absolutely fascinating!"
Hermione heard herself mumble something in reply, but it was hard to concentrate with her heart now pounding in her chest. Her mouth was suddenly dry and she swallowed convulsively as she tried to understand what Healer Smethwyck's revelation might mean.
Severus had ripped the letter in two.
She had seen him do it.
Yet he had gone on to create the exact same potion she had so amateurishly encrypted. She realised he had seen the letter once before, back when they had first discovered the contents of her bag, hidden away behind the thick curtains of his four poster bed. Would that glimpse have been enough for him to have recreated the potion? Or had he retrieved the halves of her letter once she had been thrown clear of the spell?
She stared at the innocent-looking folder of notes and equations and felt herself grow cold. Where had the potion come from? There was no way that the spell could have provided it; it was simply impossible. Everything she learnt about the spell seemed to suggest it had mutated far beyond her original intentions. She gingerly lifted the folder and hid it away in the bedside cabinet, repressing a shudder.
What had she done?