Chapter Summary: Lost and in pain, Severus is one grumpy wizard. Cursing his luck and sense of duty, he shoulders yet another obligation, only to find himself face-to-face with a perplexing stranger.

Chapter 2: All That is Silver

Severus Snape faded into consciousness feeling like he had just been on the business end of the Cruciatus Curse. Fuck. A lesser man would have groaned, but Severus Snape was not and refused to be a lesser man. Since he had no recollection of being under the Cruciatus recently, nor the events leading up to it, nor whether or not he was supposed to be dead, he thought it prudent to play possum a bit longer while he tried to work out what the devil was going on.

He was lying on his stomach and somewhere beyond the haze of mind-numbing pain he thought he felt something drumming against the entire backside of his body. He caught himself before he furrowed his brow in confusion and concentrated on keeping his breathing shallow and indiscernible. His face was turned to the side and his cheek was lying in something squishy. Merlin only knows. He could feel wet hair lying over his upturned cheek and dared to crack open an eye behind it. It took a rather long moment for black spots to clear from his vision but when they finally did, he could see that the squishiness under the other half of his face was undoubtedly mud. Peachy.

And the constant drumming against his body was indubitably rain. And the odd long thing digging diagonally into his stomach and chest would have certainly been a rock or a branch or something equally innocuous if it hadn't just twitched. If his recovering senses hadn't been on high alert before, they definitely were now. What the hell was under him? He focused his attention on his right hand, trying to sense its position and if…yes! His hand was fisted around a long shaft of wood that was thrumming happily with the magic of a dragon heartstring and the wizard holding it.

He opened his eye wider and peeked around a bit more. No hems of black robes in his immediate field of vision – somewhat of a relief, but best not to get his hopes up. He ruled out everyone other than the Dark Lord being responsible for his miserable state, for the amount of pain he was in would have required significant power and a great deal of hatred. Dumbledore had the power, but not the hatred. Potter certainly had both but not the sick resolve to see it through. Bellatrix, well, he'd be damned if she managed to curse him. She was cunning but as subtle as a troll. He would have seen it coming a mile away. No, the Dark Lord was the best bet. Now the immediate question was if he had left him to rot or if he was waiting patiently for him to wake so he could milk him for what he was worth.

Fuck it. He rolled over and off whatever was under him, paying it little mind as he looked around for his bastard master. A quick glance around told him several things at once: first, the Dark Lord was nowhere to be seen, which was somewhat of a relief; second, he was sitting in the middle of the curve of a muddy road, surrounded only by trees; third, because he was in the middle of said curve he couldn't see very far up or down the road, which made him feel decidedly uncomfortable; fourth, he was wearing teaching robes as opposed to Death Eater robes, which means it was highly unlikely he had been to see the Dark Lord recently; and fifth, the twitchy thing he'd been lying on was someone's arm – a female someone who was currently unconscious. Merlin be thanked for small mercies.

As the pounding of his heart returned to a more manageable level, he realized the rain sounded muted, which meant his hearing wasn't nearly as acute as it should be. He rubbed his ears, but the action didn't do much for him. With a muttered oath he figured he'd just have to wait it out and let his hearing return to its full potential on its own. The fact that he couldn't see far along the road nor hear very well had him feeling a bit edgy, so he pulled himself to his feet…and nearly toppled over.

Pain exploded in his head and his vision tunneled, black clouds closing in on all sides. He planted his feet firmly shoulder-width apart and settled his weight to the center, all the while holding his wand aloft, a curse on the tip of his tongue. Finally, after an interminably long time, his vision cleared out again and his hearing began to get a little sharper. Wet hair was plastered to his face, tickling his nose and getting into his eyes so, rather than shaking his head brusquely as he normally would, he carefully lifted his left hand and pushed the hair aside. Slow, deliberate steps carried him one way around the bend. The muddy road continued in a long straight line, fading into the distance – which actually wasn't so distant thanks to all the rain. He grunted and turned around, slowly marching to the other side of the bend. A little way down, the path snaked into another curve so he couldn't see terribly far that way either. He swore.

Finally he turned his attention to the woman sprawled in the mud. She was lying on her back, but a good deal of wet, stringy hair was plastered across her face, and he couldn't make out any distinguishing features…well, any identifiable distinguishing features, he amended with an indulging leer. She was wearing blue robes and clutching a wand, which meant she was a witch – another mercy. He thought the wand looked vaguely familiar, so he figured he knew her from somewhere. Student, perhaps? Former? Current? He wouldn't know until he took a closer look, so he crouched down next to her head and pushed the hair back.

"Of course," he said dryly. "Of all the sodding, bleeding luck, it's one of you. It's always one of you. I don't know why I expected it to be any different. But why couldn't you have been someone else, someone relatively harmless? Like Miss Bones? Or, better yet, Miss Abbot? I do believe you exist simply to make me miserable." He stood, towering over her form and toed her shoulder. "Miss Granger!" he said, sharply. She didn't move. He toed her shoulder again, harder, but she stubbornly flopped back into place and remained unconscious. "Irksome bint," he muttered.

He looked around willing someone, anyone, to appear – even the Dark Lord, himself. But no, he was stuck with the chit, obnoxious even in her current state of unconsciousness. Heaving a great sigh, he flicked his wand irritably and conjured a floating stretcher. Though he was still in a considerable amount of pain, he knelt next to the Gryffindor, sliding a hand under her back, and pulling her into a sitting position. Her head flopped forward like a ragdoll. He hoped she got whiplash. With a sneer he pulled her to his chest and slid his other hand under her knees and tried to stand. He very nearly didn't manage. Of course, the last time – the only time – he had ever had the misfortune of carrying Miss Granger thusly, she had been a third year and a good deal smaller and lighter. Now that she was sixteen, she had grown and filled out a bit. Wait, no, that didn't seem right…seventeen. Holy fuck! He nearly dropped her. Was he missing an entire year of his memory? And not just any year, but the year he would have…no, wait! No, no, no. Think, Severus. People can turn seventeen during their sixth year. You did, you idiot. Right. He dumped her body carelessly on the stretcher. Why was he so certain she was seventeen, though? Since when did he give a flying rat's arse when his students' birthdays were? He scowled and tried to force his brain to remember what he was forgetting. All he got for it was a vague recollection of seventeen birthday candles. Birthday candles? Seriously? Why the hell would I see Miss Granger's birthday candles? Painfully slowly the memory began to return – bumping into Filius and Granger near the kitchens, being dragged to an impromptu birthday party, Filius referring to Potter and Weasley as Miss Granger's "bookends." He snorted. There was something else, though, something important…oh, right! A frantic house elf, a fire, Pamona, then…nothing. He scowled. Sod it. He'd deal with it later.

He grabbed Granger's wrist from where it was dangling off the side of the stretcher and prepared to apparate to Hogsmeade.

Nothing.

He tried to apparate to his home on Spinner's End.

Nothing.

He swore again. "Point me Hogwarts!" he commanded his wand.

Nothing.

It lay limp in his hand, a faintly apologetic hum thrumming through it. He swore more creatively.

Still clutching the girl's wrist he prepared to apparate three feet away to test for anti-apparation wards. With a loud crack! and a migraine-inducing squeeze they landed in his destination. "A whole bloody fucking three feet!" he bellowed before dropping her wrist in disgust and massaging his temples. A deafening crack of thunder sounded in agreement above him, and the rain poured even harder. He felt like a drowned rat.

With a great deal of grumbling and muttering under his breath he spun around and took a step down the less curvy direction of the path. His robes that normally would billow gracefully around him were drenched and heavy and, instead, tangled around his legs, causing him to stumble and grab on to the floating stretcher to right himself. He glared at the Granger girl, daring her to wake up at precisely that moment, but she slept on, oblivious. He irritably smoothed his robes and flicked his hair out of his face, causing another flash of pain to explode at the action, and stormed down the road, mud splashing viciously in his wake.

An hour-and-a-half down the road his hearing had improved, and he had made a game of swears and insults, each becoming more creative and impossible than the last. His initial angry stride had run out of steam quickly and now he was shuffling along the path like a fourth year on the way to his old potions class. The only positive thing that had occurred during the wretched ordeal was that he had passed a willow tree. The tree was now missing a long strip of bark that was being crushed mercilessly between his teeth and his headache was improving somewhat.

In fact, now that his head was clearer and his muscles had loosened up some from walking, he was beginning to feel a bit more like himself. It occurred to him he hadn't spared more than a passing glance for Granger in a while, and he figured it was his duty to do so. He turned to find the stretcher still floating faithfully behind him, the Gryffindor swot crumpled awkwardly on it.

"You still alive?" he sarcastically addressed her inert form. With a pained grimace he poked her neck and felt her pulse. It seemed fine to him, but he was no Healer. As far as he was concerned, if her heart was beating, she'd live. With a harrumph he spun around, taking care with his robes, and continued on his way. About four steps along, though, he began to sense he was being watched. He stopped abruptly and drew his wand, narrowed eyes scanning the trees and brush around him. He snagged Granger's wrist in his left hand and prepared to apparate further down the road, since that seemed to be his only apparating option at the moment.

Whoever was watching him seemed to be trying to wait him out. Feeling his thin patience evaporating swiftly he called out, "Well, come on, then. I haven't got all day," and sneered for good measure. There was silence for a stretch, and he glared in the direction he was certain he was being observed from. Finally a figure emerged, barely rustling the plants around him as he did so. He was tall, thin, and rather scraggly looking. Snape caught himself from shooting off a vicious hex as it registered that the man was not Sirius Black, though he favored the dead mongrel at a glance. The man, like Severus, was covered in mud, and seemed to realize he'd very narrowly escaped something or another for he was eyeing his wand cautiously. Good.

"What business do you have here, stranger?" the man asked, his hand on the hilt of a sword. A sword?

"Whatever it is, it's none of yours," he snapped. A smirk played on the other man's lips, but they still eyed each other warily.

"You are in pain and your companion is unconscious," he stated evenly.

"And you seem to have a handle on the obvious. Shall I return the favor?" He eyed the mud caked on his boots and splattered on his cloak. Then, judging by the way he walked, he continued, "You're a rich boy who decided to run away from a highbrow life and grow up a scraggly vagabond for whatever reason struck your fancy at the time, and you seem to have misplaced your horse. Shall I go on?" he raised a sardonic eyebrow.

The man narrowed his eyes suspiciously before smiling and nodding curtly. "That'll do." His hand fell from the sword hilt, but Severus had no illusions that he couldn't still draw it frighteningly quickly should he feel the need. "There is shelter nearby. We have both been walking through the night. Let us make camp for a few hours rest. And if you will consent, I should like to tend your friend. She looks a little worse for the wear at the moment."

"She's not my friend."

"Nevertheless, she remains unconscious, and I may have the means to heal her." He looked at Severus slyly and said, "Then you wouldn't have to tote her along behind you."

"Lead on."

Snape was relieved – though he'd never admit it – when they settled in a shallow cave hidden in the trees. He directed the stretcher to the floor at the back of the cave and made to sit before he was interrupted by the momentarily tolerable Black lookalike.

"If you would make a fire, I can tend to her immediately," he said. "There is dry wood to be found…" he trailed off as Severus continued his halted downward motion and sat on the cave floor. The man pressed his lips together in irritation and scowled.

Severus smirked and conjured a nice ball of flames that floated just above the ground in the center of the cave. The other man was not a wizard, he had been able to tell that right away, but he had some sort of magic about him, and he wasn't completely unfamiliar with wizards or he would have questioned the floating stretcher at some point, so he had no qualms about performing more magic in front of him. Besides, if it came to be a problem, Severus figured he'd just obliviate him and move on. It occurred to him that he could be a bit more cautious, but he was in too much pain to give a damn about statutes of secrecy in a time when Death Eaters were blatantly attacking Muggles anyway.

The man eyed the flames thoughtfully for a moment before turning to Granger. Severus feigned disinterest, but he was paying more mind to the man's actions than he let on, perhaps even to himself. If he really questioned himself about it, he'd realize he was concerned for the welfare of his student, even if she was an obnoxious Gryffindor. But he refused to indulge in such silly contemplations.

Instead, another question slipped out, "Who are you?" Oops. Not quite as subtle as he would have liked. Too late now. He raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at the other man as if he had intended to blurt out that question all along.

The man chuckled. "People around here call me Strider," he said as he rearranged Granger into, ostensibly, a more comfortable position.

"And what do people elsewhere call you?"

"I have many names, but my first is Aragorn. All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost."

Snape looked at him oddly and the man elaborated, "The lines, along with some others unsaid, go with the name."

I'll take your word for it. "Well," Snape said, "I am Severus. All that is silver does not gleam and some who wander are lost." It was odd how comfortable he felt with the man. He wasn't senseless enough to relax completely, though. His wand was pointing to the ground, but still very much in hand.

Aragorn laughed and looked round at him with dancing eyes. "Is it common for wizards to misplace themselves?"

"Is it common for vagabonds to antagonize wizards?" Aragorn laughed again and turned back to Granger, laying the back of his hand against her forehead and cheeks.

A moment passed and then Aragorn hissed. Snape turned sharply at the sound, eyes darting between man and witch, for whom he absolutelywas not concerned. "That's a nasty burn," Aragorn said, indicating a spot on the back of Granger's neck. Snape furrowed his brow and peered over the man's shoulder. The burn was deep red flecked with black and about as big as the circle his hand could make if he touched his middle finger to his thumb. Her skin was bubbled and peeling angrily. Lines, more burns, radiated out from it like sunrays, but seemed to concentrate toward the right.

He gingerly pulled the collar of her robe back enough to see them wrapping around her shoulder and continuing down her arm. Pulling up her sleeve revealed a strange intricate latticework of burns that snaked along the outside of her arm, around her elbow and wrapped around to continue on the inside of her forearm. They came to a rest in the palm of her hand in a smaller copy of the sunburst on her neck. It was, indeed, a nasty burn and he wondered how she had gotten it. He began mentally running through dark curses that could produce such results.

Aragorn grimaced as Snape revealed the burn on her arm, and then suddenly exclaimed, "Ai! Look! The back of your robes is scorched as well!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Right here," Aragorn brushed his hand over the cloth at the base of his neck, just under the ends of his hair. Searing pain coursed through him at the touch, and he growled, throwing the man's hand off and stumbling backwards.

Aragorn grimaced apologetically and began rummaging around in his pack. "I'm sure I have – aha!" he pulled out a small bundle of dried weeds. "The last of my athelas," he said as he cleared a spot on the cave floor and began pounding the plant with a rock. He spat on the crushed weeds. Kingsfoil, Severus recognized, and he noticed the subtle work of magic common in potion making as the saliva made the weed almost paste-like. Aragorn scooped some up with two fingers and slathered it on Granger's burns. "What is her name?" he asked as he worked.

"Miss Granger."

"What is her first name?"

Severus glared suspiciously at the man. There is a multitude of curses that could be used quite acutely against a person with the knowledge of their full name. While the Gryffindor know-it-all was a thorn in his side, he would be even more annoyed to be the unwitting cause of her internal organs bursting into flames or something even more obnoxious. He scanned the man before him, searching beyond his eyes and inward to his immediate intentions. There was curiosity (to be expected), wariness (good), and hope, which Severus found alarming. Most importantly, though, concerning the current dilemma, there was compassion and an honest desire to heal the girl.

He hesitated a moment and glared at her as if it was her own fault that he had to speak her given name aloud. It felt improper and uncomfortable to even think it. He compromised by slipping it between the more comfortable appellation, "Miss Hermione Granger," he sneered, intentionally leaving out her middle name (as if he knew or cared what it was, anyway) and grimacing at the awkwardness of the first clattering out of his lungs.

Aragorn didn't respond. Instead, he closed his eyes, placed his palm gently over her forehead, and chanted softly in another language, "Hermione" interspersed in the flow of foreign words. Again, Snape felt the subtle work of magic about this man, and he was unsure what to make of it. If not a wizard, then what was he?

Granger didn't so much as twitch, but the other man leaned back and nodded his head in satisfaction. "She's in a healing sleep, now. She ought to waken sometime tomorrow," he said. Good. The sooner she awoke, the sooner he could get rid of her. "Now, shall I have a look at your own burn?"

Severus sneered and opened his mouth to tell him exactly what he could do with his spit-smeared weeds, but reason caught up with him before his tongue slipped. He was unfamiliar with any curse, dark or otherwise, that would cause burns quite like what he and Miss Granger were afflicted with. If he let it go unattended it would only get worse. Of course, he was certainly capable of harvesting ingredients and brewing his own potions, but that involved having to get up and go back out in the rain. His entire body felt like he'd been crucio'd under the Whomping Willow and he really was quite comfortable on the floor. On the other hand, if he summoned up the will to brew something for the burn, he could also brew something for the mind-numbing pain. He pursed his lips and looked thoughtfully at Aragorn. He really had no desire to move. Fine. He nodded curtly and, with a (supposedly) reassuring smile, the scoundrel moved next to him and gestured for him to lean forward.

Severus hadn't noticed the pain of the burn alone since his whole body was hurting – even his hair follicles, but the moment Aragorn had swept his hand over the back of his neck, calling attention to it, it had been throbbing. Or perhaps it had always been throbbing and he only began to notice it then. He wasn't bothered by the distinction. He was, however, bothered with letting a scruffy bloke he barely knew that looked suspiciously like Black tend to it. He consoled himself with the fact that Black was the black sheep of his family – all the others had been proper Slytherins. And none of them had tried to feed him to a werewolf. He tensed in anger at the memory.

Aragorn began to hum, of all things. Irritating twit. He scooped up the Kingsfoil paste – athelas, he remembered – and carefully smeared it over his burn. It felt cool and thick. It really was quite soothing. His eyes drifted shut for a moment before he caught himself and snapped them back open. Aragorn moved his ministrations to his shoulder before brazenly tugging his right sleeve up and attending to a strange mesh of burns that crisscrossed down his arm just as Granger's had. Snape stared at the circular burn in his palm with a furrowed brow. How had he missed that? It wasn't until he stretched his fingers, allowing his dark wand to roll to the first row of knuckles that he realized he had been clutching it the entire time. He hadn't noticed the burn because he had had his wand pressed against it until now.

Aragorn's inane humming turned into words, but in presumably the same language he had been chanting earlier over Granger. He'd better not be chanting over me! But no, he was just singing as he moved away and held his hands out of the cave, letting the rain rinse them clean. He came back and held his hands over the enchanted fire for a moment and then leaned back against the wall, stretching his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. He stopped singing and Severus was annoyed to realize it had been relaxing. With an irritated huff he mimicked Aragorn's position, sitting opposite him, their legs on opposite sides of the fire. If that movement had placed him between the vagrant and his comatose student, he chose not to think about it.

A/N: Thank you to those who have favorited and followed this so far, and especially to those who have reviewed (BookGirl1993 and DarthLeia19)! Your interest serves as motivation to keep writing! Updates will be slow coming for this story, but I'm chugging away at it. Tackling either series, but especially LOTR is a massive undertaking! Thank you for your patience!