Hope is a Dangerous Thing

Two

1998

Hermione threw herself down onto the grass and pulled out the Daily Prophet from her bag. This was how she spent most of her lunch breaks these days. In the two months since the final battle, the major repairs to the castle were largely completed. There were still areas off limits, but the school would soon be able to function again.

She had returned to help with the rebuild. All things considered, it had seemed the best thing for her to do. Now, she would also assist in preparing for the return of the children. The school year would start anew in January, but there was still much to be done. Professor McGonagall was in charge. There were teachers to find, children to register, classrooms to decorate… All traces of the Death Eater influence to be removed and resolutely destroyed.

She would also be completing her Newts in the new year. It had to be done and the Headmistress was more than prepared to oblige. Hermione simply could not accept honourary accreditation, unlike many of her peers. Becoming a witch at eleven had been all about her magical education and, whether she needed it or not, she would finish her education. Voldemort had taken much, but he would not take that from her too.

She folded up the paper and threw it to one side; there was nothing of note within it. She tilted her face up, and as the last of the summer sun shone pleasantly over the castle, Hermione rather thought one could easily forget all that had only recently occurred in this remote land. Everything was now filled with renewed optimism and renewed life. Was it the return of normality? She certainly hoped so.

Nevertheless, there were intrigues, still; certain things that piqued her curiosity. Things that, perhaps, were not quite as they seemed. Such as why Minerva McGonagall and Poppy Pomfrey seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time in that one small turret that clung to the side of the large tower housing the Hospital Wing. The wing that had long been empty of recovering final battle victims.

Working the grounds and gardens throughout the summer, Hermione had repeatedly observed their figures in that turret. Hermione also knew they were at pains to keep the wing locked. She knew because she had tried to get in there. Genuinely, of course; Madam Pomfrey had asked her to brew some basic medicinal potions for her stores.

After weeks dwelling on it, the only reasonable conclusion Hermione could make was that, maybe, there was one patient left, after all. And if that were true, who could warrant such secrecy?

Aware that it was not her place to confront them, she was prepared to let the matter drop, deciding for once that she might be better off out of it. Of course, as soon as she was resolved to that, fate decided to intervene. Minerva McGonagall appeared at her quarters one night, quite unexpectedly, clutching a candle and wearing a grave look upon her face.

'I need your help, Hermione.'

Hermione nodded.

As she followed the Headmistress, her heart began to beat a little harder when she saw she was being led to the Hospital Wing. She was finally being taken into their confidence, she realised. And despite having made logical conjectures over the weeks, now wild imaginings flurried through her mind and her stomach began to twitch uncomfortably.

A door she had never seen before shimmered into view. Through it they went and began ascending a narrow, winding stair. The latch on the heavy oak door at top was lifted and Hermione followed the older woman into a small, circular room. The sconces in the room blazed and first her eyes were drawn to Madam Pomfrey, standing expectantly at the head of a bed. Then they were drawn to the bed and her throat clenched painfully.

She had thought it would be him, but seeing proof of it did not temper the shock. Many a night her nightmares took her back to the Shrieking Shack.

Professor McGonagall stepped up to stand at the other side of the bed, sharing an uncertain look with her colleague. Madam Pomfrey seemed to give her a little encouraging nod.

'What's going on?' Hermione managed to stammer out, staring wide at the tableau in front of her. She took a few steps closer to the bed. 'We thought… Everyone assumed that…'

'That Severus was dead,' Minerva finished brusquely. 'As you can see, he is not.'

'He is not,' continued Poppy. 'But neither is he well. In fact, he has yet to awaken at all.'

Hermione still stared dumbly at the unmoving figure. There were dressings adorning his neck.

'Why have you not taken him to St. Mungos? Why have you not told anyone?'

A shadow crossed Minerva's face. 'I could not be sure he would be treated fairly.'

'But Harry cleared his name…'

'It is not that simple, Hermione. There has been no scrutiny of Severus, precisely because he is presumed dead. Dead, he will be simply a paragraph in the history books. Alive? Well, alive he is a problem. He will have to be tried for being a Death Eater, amongst other things.'

Minerva looked down at the somnolent figure. 'I can't fully explain it, but it seemed the right thing to do, at the time. There is no guarantee that Severus will live.' She turned back to Hermione squarely and continued. 'Do not mistake me, we very much wish for Severus's recovery, which is why you are here - we need assistance from one we can trust. Can we - Can I trust you not to reveal Serverus's whereabouts to anyone? If you intend on going to the Ministry -'

Hermione shook her head vehemently. 'I do not wish Professor Snape ill.'

The expressions on the older women relaxed minutely.

'Nothing to Potter and Weasley, either.'

Hermione nodded in agreement.

It transpired both women had been sharing the duty of monitoring their fallen colleague - administering liquids, changing dressings, moving him etc. But increasingly, McGonagall was required to attend to duties at the school and it was too much for Madam Pomfrey alone. They needed another pair of hands, essentially.

So that is how, only a few days later, Hermione found herself sitting alone in the chamber with him. Madam Pomfrey had given her much instruction. She had also learned more of his condition. The flesh wounds were healing, but the damage internally could not be assessed until he awoke. The reason he had not awoken, it was felt, was how close he had come to death. His body was shut down and was trying to repair itself, replenish its very lifeblood. They could only provide support to that end, and it was a worthwhile endeavour, she decided. How long could they continue to wait, though? Madam Pomfrey could not be sure, but they hoped for signs of improvement any day.

Hermione sat in the wingback chair and took out her NEWT level textbooks. It would be an hour whilst the Invigoration Draught slowly fed into his bloodstream. And this became her routine for a few weeks, most mornings and evenings - sitting, watching, reading, administering. Talking, too; she always started with Advanced Potions. She would have a one-sided conversation with him, reading aloud, asking questions, voicing her musings aloud. The peace was comfortable; it was pleasant.

Occasionally, she would find her mind wandering. Mostly, she was too tired to think too deeply about her situation, or his situation, for that matter. But sometimes, she would catch herself studying him, wondering about who he really was. Wondering about what kind of man could have lived the life he had. Wondering how he could ever come back from it. Wondering, darkly, if Minerva McGonagall clutching him from the jaws of death might end up being a terrible mistake.

Those moments, she would quickly try to snap herself out of. Inevitably, pondering the demons of others would lead to her revisit her own. She knew she could lose hours to dwelling on the things she could not change and the things she tried to forget. It was never a good place for her to be. She was grateful for any and all distraction.

Their patient eventually did make a return to consciousness, and Hermione was somewhat relieved when it did not happen on her watch. Minerva caught up with her in the grounds one afternoon to update her.

'He is very weak and still spends much of the time asleep,' Minerva explained as they walked, 'but he, ah, cannot talk - at all.'

Hermione frowned.

'Neither is it because of how weak he is…'

'The bite?'

'Indeed…' Minerva trailed off uncomfortably. 'Poppy is to travel to London to St. Mungo's to make some discreet enquiries, but it is difficult.'

'Perhaps it is time to tell -' Hermione broke off at the Headmistress's sharp shake of her head.

'No, dear, not yet. There are things that must be made right first before… We can still rely on your discretion?'

'Of course,' Hermione affirmed, taking note of the evident concern in the elder woman's voice.

Minerva surveyed her. 'We must continue to exercise caution, more than ever, now that he is awake. Yes?'

'Undoubtedly.'

'Thank you. Unfortunately, I also have to travel to the Ministry for several days at the end of the week. Will you-?'

Hermione nodded her head, feeling a slight pang of dread.

'I am very grateful to you, Hermione.' Minerva placed a hand on her shoulder. 'I, ah, cannot say that Severus himself will be grateful. I am sure that he will now regain his strength and when he does… Well, for better or ill we will get an idea of his mind, I am sure. I have explained to him as much as I can, but… I hope you will not be put off.'

Hermione smiled gently. If she couldn't handle a discombobulated Severus Snape after everything else she had been through, well, it would be ridiculous. With a smile, the Headmistress departed. Hermione watched her go, wondering at the evident regard being displayed for the man who, it seemed to her at least, was a mystery.

But despite her assurances, there was something that left her with vague disquiet. Hermione felt her eyes lift skywards towards the Hospital Wing. She thought it was probably trepidation she felt. What exactly worried her, she couldn't be sure.

That evening she took up her usual spot once more. He still couldn't physically imbibe anything, so she set the series of potions to start infusing. He was asleep, and quite peacefully too it seemed. Determined to carry on as normal, she took out a textbook. She passed over Potions and she chose her Transfiguration book instead.

Aware that his sleep was more natural now, she made sure to keep musings to a muted tone. She lifted her wand and practised some of the movements, deciding she would have to bring some items to practise with next time - the bare room provided no pops for her. It was as she was occupied thus that she briefly glanced at her charge. She flinched violently and dropped her wand when she saw two dark eyes watching her.

'Oh,' she exclaimed softly, quickly retrieving her wand.

She saw his jaw move. He was trying to talk, she realised. In the end, he simply closed his eyes in defeat and turned his head so that he faced away from her. Hermione only stared, quite frozen for a time. Eventually, she turned back to her book and uttered not another sound. She wondered if she should say something, to try and engage him, but she could think of nothing. The atmosphere in the room felt too painfully awkward to do anything other than sit in silence.

In any case, she thought he must have dropped back to sleep, for he did not stir at all when she left for the night.

In an effort to neutralise the atmosphere, the next morning when she arrived to give him his potions, she did so with studied confidence and nonchalance. It was needed, because this time he was slumped against the pillows, clearly awake.

'Good morning,' she said brightly, setting immediately to placing the phials in the clamp stand and connecting them to the tube in his arm. When that was done, she reached into her bag and pulled out a book. She had gone straight to the library last night; where else would she go for inspiration?

She flicked the book open to the requisite page and placed it before him. It was a variation on the Dict-o-quill charm. Instead of recording speech, however, it would record thoughts. When he looked up after scanning the page, she produced a quill and proffered it to him.

'Well?'

He nodded tightly, taking the quill from her.

Hermione set to it, raising her wand and casting the incantation over him. She had managed to tweak it slightly, to make it more efficient for his circumstances. No one wanted to be bothering with ink and scrolls of parchment, she felt.

When the spell was finished, she took to her chair. 'And don't worry, it will differentiate between the things you want to say and the things you merely think to yourself. Give it a try; go on, I can take it.'

She was well aware she may have created a rod for her own back, but nevertheless, she felt she ought to assist where she could.

To her mild surprise, the first words to materialise in the air before her were 'Thank you.'

She nodded, her mouth quirkiness slightly at the spidery scrawl.

Then the quill continued with an elaborate flourish, writing, 'Now, feel free to leave me be.'

Hermione shook her head. 'I cannot; you know very well there is no one else here to assist you. I will leave once the infusions are finished.'

Nothing followed that. He opted to stare obstinately out towards the mountainous skyline. Hermione watched him briefly, feeling that he looked plainly awful. His hair had been drawn back and tied to provide free access to the bandage at his neck. His countenance was fully visible, wan and gaunt, and mostly expressionless. More commonly a dark figure, he now seemed to blend totally into the white sheets of the bed. In some ways, she thought it made him look unusually young and small.

Hermione returned to her reading, but for the whole of the hour, he simply stared away from her, unmoving apart from the rise and fall of his chest. It was distinctly unnerving. When the potions were finished, she scrambled for something to say, feeling she could not simply get up and leave.

As she put her books away, she paused and considered him once more.

'Look, why don't you make use of me? I have no doubt you must be bored stiff. What can I bring you? What can I fetch for you?'

There was nothing, not even a movement.

'Obviously, I have no desire to go rooting around your private things.' She tried again. 'Something from the library, maybe?'

Nothing.

'Right,' she murmured to herself. 'Well, here is this morning's Prophet, and the latest Witch Weekly, if you can stomach it.'

She dropped them down onto the table at the bedside and, gathering up the empty flasks, she left.

The next morning when she went to prepare his potions, he once again ignored her for a time. Except, eventually, a question did materialise into the air.

'Why are you still here?'

'In the castle?' She clarified.

He nodded.

She thought about her answer for a moment or two, and opted for the simple explanation. 'I have nowhere else to go,' she replied plainly. 'I expect Professor McGonagall has told you that Harry and Ron are away for Auror training. I do not want to become an Auror.'

He simply moved his head on the pillow to look up at the ceiling. He did not ask the next obvious question, for which she breathed a small sigh of relief. She sat and began fumbling around in her bag, eyes stinging at the thought of her parents.

There was silence again for the majority of the hour until, at the end, she caught sight of the quill scribbling in the air and she looked up. It was a list of book titles, she realised. She flicked to the back of her notebook and began copying them down.

Hermione frowned reading through them. 'You read Muggle fiction?'

He nodded. It was unusual, but then maybe it wasn't, she thought, considering he had a Muggle father.

Her expression must have given her away, for she glanced at him to find the question 'Unusual for a Death Eater?' hovering in the air beside him. She almost flinched.

'No,' she burst out. 'Unusual for a wizard.'

He actually smirked at her umbrage. 'Magic narrows the mind,' he wrote. 'Stifles the imagination…'

'I quite agree. Unfortunately, I have rather lapsed in my reading of novels…'

She often felt she was too easily distracted these days to concentrate on reading for pleasure. There was too much scope for intrusive thoughts. Painful flashbacks. Choking regrets. She sighed deeply, busying herself with putting her books into her bag. She avoided looking up for a moment, sure that he was watching her.

'I will go and retrieve these for you straightaway,' she said briskly.

He nodded his thanks and shifted himself into a more upright position. She left feeling like she had achieved something and it filled her with a burst of positivity.

It was a pleasant feeling for once.