Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Draco Malfoy, and all these other people are characters belonging to J.K. Rowling. I claim no rights to them, their surroundings, or their situations. Much to my sorrow.

--- 12 Hermione: Hush the Shadows

Six paces from the row of ugly institutional chairs to the floating teapot.

Three paces from there to the periodicals rack.

Five paces back to the chairs.

She had it down to a science, and she'd only been here half an hour...

Hermione stopped to refill her cup from the never-empty, self-heating pot. "Milk, one teaspoon." She watched as a splotch of soft brown appeared and spiralled outward from the centre of the cup, took a sip, and went back to her ritual with a sigh. Even in a magical hospital, the tea was substandard.

Only one other person was currently present in the waiting room, an unremarkable middle-aged lady with her nose buried in a dog-eared copy of The Quibbler. "CORNELIUS FUDGE'S SECRET SQUIB LOVE CHILD!" screamed the front page. Fudge's image was apparently as inured to the paper's absurd rumor-mongering as everyone else; he was rolling his eyes and calmly taking tea beneath the blaring headline.

The lady had said nothing since Hermione's arrival. However, after another half-dozen restless circuits around the room, she lowered her paper. "Child, you do realise that whoever it is you're waiting on is unlikely to be helped by your wearing a track in the carpet..."

Hermione flushed and came to a halt. "Sorry, was I bothering you?" She meekly seated herself in one of the chairs, which were just as uncomfortable as they looked.

The lady favored her with a coolly sympathetic smile. "Don't think on it too much, my dear, no one comes here except for the most unpleasant of reasons. But we mustn't waste our energy on useless dithering, must we? There's a war on, after all..."

Hermione nodded. "That's true. I can't help but worry, though. My...the person I'm here with is hurt very badly, and it's terribly frustrating not knowing what's going on."

"I should imagine so." The stranger folded her paper neatly and set it down beside her. "A friend of yours, or a relative?"

"Neither," she admitted. "He's...an acquaintance."

The woman raised her eyebrows. "An acquaintance? A close one, surely, with the way you've been fretting since you arrived."

The young woman shook her head firmly. "No, actually, I've known him for some time, but we aren't close. It's just that..." She hesitated. Honesty was usually the best policy, within reason. "Well, he hasn't really got anyone else, I don't think. I came because I was there, and I could."

"That's very kind of you. I'm sure your friend will be grateful."

Something about the lady's reserved friendliness was vaguely unsettling, though Hermione couldn't have said why. "I hope so, but I shouldn't be surprised if he's frightfully annoyed with me. He usually is." She smiled wryly. "Still, I'd rather have him glowering at me and deducting House points than not there at all."

"Oh!" The lady sat up a bit straighter, her air of bored curiosity giving way to sharp interest. "Why then, you must be from the Academy. It's one of the instructors who's been hurt then? Dear me, how dreadful."

Hermione groaned inwardly. She hadn't meant to speak so freely; the burning of Hogwarts could not stay secret for long, but she suspected Professor Dumbledore would not be at all pleased, if she set the hospital abuzz with rumors before he and his Order could disseminate the information as they saw fit.

"Yes, there was an accident in the Potions lab," she said, sticking with the truth (after a fashion) but then immediately changing the subject. "You must be waiting on someone, too? I do hope it's not something too serious?"

The woman nodded. "I am indeed. I expect my husband to be along soon. He's been indisposed for some time, you see, but I don't doubt he'll be right as rain after his visit here..." Her eyes gleamed in an eager way that accentuated Hermione's discomfort.

A nurse came to the desk and consulted a clipboard, then called out "H. Granger?"

"That's me." Hermione jumped out of her seat with alacrity, nearly spilling what remained of her tea in her haste to be away from this strange woman. "It was nice talking with you," she added, ever mindful of her manners, "I do hope it all works out for your husband."

The woman nodded and waved cheerily, smiling an odd little smile as Hermione went to the desk.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she told the nurse.

"You're waiting on Mr. Snape?" When she nodded, the nurse went on, "Very well, dear, come along with me. He's in a restricted ward."

She asked a colleague to cover her desk and led Hermione to a locked door with a sign that read "Authorised Personnel Only", murmured a password, and pressing her hand flat against the centre panel. It opened with no fanfare beyond a soft click, and they stepped through, the nurse closing the door behind them.

The nurse headed onward at a brisk pace, and Hermione found herself breaking into a slight jog to keep up. "How is he?" she asked, keeping her voice low in deference to the setting.

Noting Hermione's difficulty, the nurse slowed a trifle and said in a similarly low tone, "Well, he gave us all a bit of a scare. His respiratory system was badly damaged, and it took forever to get a potion down him...he kept choking, and coughing fit to bring up a lung."

"But he's all right now?" Hermione prompted worriedly.

"I think he will be. He's stable, at least, and we've got the cough under control. You'll need to speak to the mediwizard to get a full prognosis, however."

They ascended a staircase to the third floor and wound their way through a series of corridors, finally turning into one with a sign reading "Potion and Plant Poisoning -- Respiratory Intensive Care." When they came to the next-to-the-last door, the nurse paused before pushing it open. "You should be forewarned, he doesn't look good. Much worse than he actually is, in fact."

Since when did Snape ever look good? Hermione heard herself thinking--channeling for Ron, perhaps--but she was overcome with shame for the unkind thought, once she stepped into the room and caught sight of the bed and its occupant.

The nurse waited patiently as she stood stock-still just inside the door, then gave her a gentle nudge forward. "You can stay as long as you like," she said softly. "He's been sedated, but don't be afraid to talk to him; even deeply unconscious, it's surprising what people can sometimes hear and remember. Pull the rope, there, if you need anything." Next to the tasseled cord hung a stark black-and-white sign, reading Medifield in use - Please Do Not Cast.

She paused in the doorway. "Oh, and don't mind the energy field. It helps him breathe, but as long as you don't cast any spells in here, nothing you do will disrupt it." Then she exited the room, shutting the door noiselessly behind her.

Hermione stood frozen in the dim light of the small space for long moments. Forcing herself into motion, she quietly drew up a chair that stood next to the bed--a proper comfortable chair this time, thank Merlin--and sat down, unable to tear her eyes away from Professor Snape. She was secretly grateful for his cataleptic state, certain that she couldn't have looked him in the eye and said anything remotely encouraging.

Always distinctly on the pale side, now his face was waxen, nearly matching the snowy white of the bedclothes; it stood out in stark contrast against the tangled mass of his inky black hair. Gone were the omnipresent black robes, replaced with the same sort of ill-fitting gown affair one might find in any hospital. Striped, Hermione thought with a wince; bet he's going to hate that.

Even in his sleep, it seemed the man was unable to relax. Both hands were knotted tightly in the blankets, his brows drawn together in an expression of acute distress.

Some three or four feet above the bed hovered a simple varnished wooden bar, horizontal to the floor, which emitted a soft blue glow that bathed Snape in a cool radiance. The light did nothing at all to improve his ghastly appearance. It emphasised the deep shadows around his eyes, and cast the planes of his angular face in sharp relief.

Try as she might, Hermione couldn't see the towering menace she associated with her Potions instructor in this frail and vulnerable creature. Stripped of the mask of sardonic indifference, the suffering etched into his face was laid bare for anyone to see. How strange that she, of all people, should be the one here to see it.

But then again, who else? If Snape had any friends, she certainly hadn't heard of it.

Moved by that thought, she screwed up her courage and reached out, very gently working the fingers of his left hand loose from their desperate grip and enfolding it in her own once more. The infamous skull-and-serpent mark of the Death Eaters was clearly visible upon the inside of his arm; she carefully draped a fold of the blanket over the sigil and firmly dismissed it from her mind.

Talk to him, the nurse had suggested. Right, then; what did one say to one's comatose Potions instructor?

Clearing her throat softly, and reflexively sitting up a bit straighter, she began tentatively, "Professor? I-it's me, Hermione. Hermione Granger." Oh, brilliant start! How many other Hermione's can he possibly know? "If you can hear me...I'm very sorry if I'm bothering you. I just thought you might want to know what's been happening...it must all be very--unsettling.

"We're at St. Mungo's, in the respiratory intensive care unit on the third floor. The Potions and Plant Poisonings floor," she added helpfully, unsure whether Snape was familiar with the place's layout. "You collapsed in the Safe House after your argument with Harry, and when Madame Pomfrey came she said that the vapors from the explosives you'd been working with had injured your lungs very badly, so you'd need to be admitted..."

Unlike a Muggle hospital, this place was untroubled by the beeps, hums and assorted background noise of technological gadgetry. The only sounds in the cool, thick-walled room were that of her own voice and the low rasp of the sick man's labored breathing. It was an eerie tableau, even for someone who'd witnessed the things Hermione had.

After she'd explained the situation as best she could, which did not take long, she concluded, feeling rather foolish, "That's about all. I...I wish you could answer, so I'd know whether I should stay or leave. I'll just be quiet now, and let you rest..."

She fell silent, studying the pale gaunt face intently for some flicker of reaction. Could it be her imagination, or had his frown faded just the tiniest bit?

Then as the silence lengthened, she got her sign: a very weak answering pressure against her palm. Snape turned his head slightly in her direction, a small painful sound rising from his ravaged throat.

Hermione had no sure way to tell whether these responses were conscious or purely reflexive. For all she knew, he might be trying to order her out of his room. It would be a very Snape thing to do; but an obscure instinct, one she tended to trust whenever it spoke, now whispered to her that this wasn't the case.

"Hush, it's all right. I'm still here," she murmured, squeezing his hand gently. "I won't leave you alone..."

This time she was certain she hadn't imagined it; he relaxed visibly at the sound of her voice. A few locks of that infamous lank hair had tumbled across his face as he'd moved. Squelching a distasteful reaction, Hermione brushed it carefully out of his eyes, tucking it safely back behind his ear. Amazing, she thought, it isn't nearly as oily as it looks; perhaps he's just cursed with the kind of hair that looks awful no matter what he does. She could relate to that problem.

"There, that should stay out of your way now," she murmured for something to say, casting about for a likely topic. A pity they'd departed in such a rush; a good book would be just the thing right now.

Finally she seized onto a favourite subject, one that she was fairly certain the Potions Master would be familiar with--and which she thought would now hold a common poignancy for them both.

"Have you ever read Hogwarts: A History, Professor? I've had a copy since before I came to school my first year. I've nearly memorised it, but it seems that every time I go back and read it again I find something I'd missed before."

She shifted a bit in her seat, getting comfortable for what might prove to be a lengthy vigil. "Did you know, for example, that no one has ever managed to find or duplicate the spell used to lay the school's foundations? The History doesn't say much more about it, but according to The Great Book of Lost Spells, the Founders claimed to have never written it down. So there's never been another building made the same way since..."

On familiar ground now, she talked on and on about the old school; its construction, its Founders, its earliest days, and the great men and women who'd taught and studied there over the centuries. Certain subjects she carefully steered clear of, mindful of whom she was speaking to; but for the most part she rambled carelessly, recounting a wealth of facts that would have lulled Ron and Harry into a stupor in short order.

For her, though, these weren't simply dry bits of information about people long dead. It was all part of a vast, marvelous, unending story, in which she and everyone she knew were merely the latest characters to appear.

Her voice failed her once or twice, as historical fact evoked very personal memories of her own years at the school; but she wiped away the tears that fell despite her best efforts, and went on resolutely.

It occurred to her at some point that she couldn't hope to find a better way than this, to say goodbye to the grand old castle.

Snape slept peacefully throughout her monologue, his hand grown warm in hers as his tortured breathing gradually came clearer and easier; his silent unresponsive presence was strangely comforting. As a result, Hermione eventually found herself saying things to her feared instructor that she would never have dreamed of just a few hours before.

"Hogwarts was your home, wasn't it, Professor?" she said softly. "I don't remember you ever leaving over the holidays. You were always there...so many others came and went, but not you." What a lonely life that must have been, she thought with bitter regret, and none of us ever gave it a moment's thought. But if we had, would it have changed anything, really? Could we have got through that wall if we'd tried?

"You've always seemed to hate us, and so we hated you right back. But I can't imagine what Hogwarts would have been like without you, Professor. You were like a part of the school itself, a cornerstone; just like Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall." She bowed her head, all at once nearly overcome by the magnitude of the day's events.

"What will you do, now that it's gone? What will any of us do?"

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