Chapter Text
"How's the pain today?" Hermione asked as she unwrapped Anthony Goldstein's left leg as gently as she could.
"Much better," Anthony said. He was getting used to this ritual now; he wasn't even blushing any more as Hermione began to apply salve to his skin. "I can make do with the milder potion in the mornings now. I might even forgo the Dreamless Sleep tonight."
Hermione nodded encouragingly. Good for Anthony, if he was ready to try to sleep without the aid of a potion. She wasn't sure she was going to manage that for some time, yet. In the three days that had gone by since the Battle of Hogwarts she seemed to have undergone some kind of transition. No more capable and adventurous Hermione Granger, stalwart friend of the Boy-Who-Just-Kept-Living. She had morphed, somehow, into a timorous wreck who spent most of each day jumping at shadows.
Even that, however, was preferable to the way she felt the rest of the time. Even that was better than the rage.
Of course she'd always had something of a temper, but it was – hitherto – a facet of her character she'd believed she had under control. Now, in these post-war days, she had to work so much harder to quell the urge to snap at people. Sometimes the questions or comments directed her way left her so furious that she could hardly breathe. The moments crept up on her, coming from out of nowhere but transforming her mood into something monstrous.
The only thing that helped her to calm down was to let herself imagine how satisfying it would feel to show these stupid, blinkered idiots how unjustifiable, how insane, their tame view of the world was. She would picture it in her mind: let the idiots cling to their trusting attitude, let them see how much protection it offered them, when they realised that they were living in a world where an eighteen year old former-teachers-pet could look them straight in the eye and then tear up their faces with a flick of her wand and a voiceless hex.
Maybe then they might learn that no one, nowhere, is really safe. Not ever.
And then she'd blink, and the horror film playing out behind her eyes would be gone, and so would the urge to unleash her anger on the poor, unsuspecting, oblivious idiot who'd lacked the sense to steer well clear of Hermione Granger and her newfound mental instability...
Because she regretted these dark fantasies as soon as she indulged them. Of course she did. She hated violence. Or at least, she thought that was the case. Hoped it was. So she blamed her mood swings on sleeplessness and the throbbing pain that had set up permanent residence in her temples, and she tried to look forward to a time in the future when she wasn't frightened by everything. Including herself.
Her work here at St. Mungo's was something of a lifeline. Madam Pomfrey had allowed her to continue to assist with the post-battle injuries, even after the evacuation from Hogwarts. Hermione had claimed a desire to keep herself occupied, but there was more to it than that. She couldn't be alone without being scared, nor could she remove herself from people without worrying that she'd lose the ability to deal with them altogether. Never before had she felt the need to work on her own capacity for empathy, but in these shaken, uncertain days following Voldemort's defeat it felt – just a bit – like it was a skill that might crumble to rust without a conscious effort to practise it.
In truth, Hermione's behavioural shortcomings in the days since the battle were obvious and profuse. They could even be described as 'textbook', which seemed horrifically fitting for a young woman who had defined herself by her diligence in learning. Still, she could hardly fail to recognise the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder when she felt them ringing in her ears.
Anthony was still trying to chat, possibly to distract himself from the way Hermione's hands were reaching up past his knee. She'd drifted for a while. She was doing that more and more often. With a frown, she tried to pull herself together.
"Sorry, what was that?" she asked.
"I was just saying – Professor McGonagall came by earlier. She was telling me about the team she's putting together. You know. To fix the school."
"The architects?" Hermione hid a smile. No wonder Anthony was interested. His Muggle mother was distantly related to Nicholas Hawksmoor, who'd designed some of the Oxford colleges and a bit of Westminster Abbey. Anthony had always liked architecture.
"Yeah, Charms Masters, really, but specialising in structure. They're coming from all over. America, Europe, and some witch from the Middle East."
They talked about the job of fixing Hogwarts for a while, until Hermione was finished with the more intimate parts of Anthony's leg and there was no need to distract him any longer. "All done," she said after tucking the end of his bandage neatly away. "Two more treatments like this and you'll be all mended."
Anthony looked at her a moment. "Good to know," he offered, with a smile that didn't touch his solemn eyes.
Because, of course, Hermione was not the only one dealing with more than physical injuries. She tried to return his smile as she stood straight and stretched her back. Her eyes closed briefly against the too-bright light of the floating globes illuminating the ward. Then she sighed, shook her head against the fuzziness of fatigue, and began to gather up her supplies.
"Um," Anthony tried, then he cleared his throat. "You all right?"
"Fine," Hermione replied automatically, making every attempt not to growl. She was wholly and sincerely fed up with people asking her that.
"Only you look pretty washed out."
Of course she did. She'd managed three hours of sleep the morning after the battle, right until the moment when she'd woken up screaming. Since then she'd risked only forty winks here and there, because stocks of Dreamless Sleep were low, and patients who actually needed hospital beds were being prioritised over people whose only visible injuries were a few bumps and scrapes.
"I'll be fine," she said, suddenly wanting to escape Anthony's attempts at kindness. Such things felt like an attack. Every "Are you okay?" could be more honestly translated as "You're still alive – what the fuck is your problem?"
She turned away, swallowing hard, clutching unused medical supplies in her arms to return to the stores. She needed to find something else to do, someone else to concentrate on. Someone who didn't give a crap about the dark smudges around her eyes or the gauntness of her cheekbones. Someone who wasn't going to ask her stupid questions like have you been eating, Hermione, have you been sleeping? Because of course she fucking hadn't–
Anthony's voice called her name, but it came from a distance. Around the edges of Hermione's vision, blackness encroached. She felt a flutter of panic when she realised that the tiled floor of the hospital ward was coming up to meet her in a manner that was just far too fast and uncontrolled, but even as she tried to prepare herself for the pain of impact, the whole world went away.
~~~
Darkness.
Discomfort.
Darkness and discomfort meant dungeons. Dungeons meant captivity.
Captivity meant Malfoy Manor.
And Malfoy Manor meant terror and pain and humiliation and helplessness. Hermione knew a surge of panic, shuddered as she tried not to let the feeling overwhelm her, and she drew a breath to try to call for her friends–
"Welcome back," said Madam Pomfrey's voice.
Hermione tensed into absolute stillness and thought for a moment. Hallucination? No. No, she was missing something. She let the breath out slowly. Then she risked opening her eyes–
Ouch.
Way, way too bright. She shuttered her eyes again and bit her lip to keep from groaning. Her head hurt, just above her left eye; it was a separate hurt to her old friend the permanent-tension-headache. Which was still there, of course, that being the whole nature of 'permanent'. And there was a hot flare of bruisey-pain over her left hip as well.
"Easy, there," the matron's voice insisted. "Give yourself a minute."
Hermione breathed a few times before risking the light again. It wasn't quite so painful this time. As her blurred vision cleared, the familiar face of Madam Pomfrey that coalesced above her was surprisingly reassuring.
She was in St. Mungo's. Of course she was. Malfoy Manor had been weeks ago.
"What happened?" she mumbled.
"You passed out." Pomfrey made it sound accusatory. "Exhaustion. Dehydration – and how you managed that after three days working in various well-equipped infirmaries is beyond me, but I can only assume you've not only been failing to eat properly but you've also been forgetting to drink."
Hermione shuffled in the bed she had been mercilessly tucked into. "Must have slipped my mind," she conceded.
"And by the way, young lady, you might have told me that the wound on your neck had re-opened. I could have closed it up again for you before it became infected."
That was definitely accusatory. Hermione rolled her eyes and considered the place where Bellatrix's cursed knife had sliced into her. An infection would explain the itching heat which had been growing at the lowest point of the injury. "Fine," she growled and opened her eyes to glare at Pomfrey. "All my fault. I'm a terrible excuse for a human being. Can I bloody well get up now?"
The words settled in the quiet air of the hospital ward. It took Hermione several moments before she even managed to process the anger she had just thrown at a member of the Hogwarts staff.
"Er..."
Madam Pomfrey tut-tutted and came to the head of the bed, where she helped Hermione sit up and then offered her a glass of water.
"Slowly," she instructed. "I've got some potions down you already, but your throat is probably sore from being coaxed to swallow, and your digestive system will be all out of kilter."
Hermione sipped. "Sorry," she murmured.
Pomfrey sighed hard. "I wish I'd known you were in this kind of state."
"Really, I'm fine. Just a bit tired."
"Oh, is that so? And between the two of us, young lady, who has the better grasp of medical diagnostic charms?"
Hermione didn't deign to reply.
More gently, Pomfrey asked, "Hermione, why aren't you at the Burrow with Mr. Weasley and his family?"
She winced. Immersing herself in that many people and that much grief? No thank you. The very idea had almost induced a panic attack two days ago, when Ron had found her as she'd helped move the last patients from Hogwarts, and he'd simply asked, "Coming, then?" She'd been grateful for the excuse of being needed to tend to the injured, although Ron's eyes had clouded with hurt when she'd sent him on alone.
Hermione gave a tired sigh. "Ron's got enough on his plate. The family's still trying to move back in – they had to leave the Burrow for a while. And there's everything that, you know, happened." She couldn't even say Fred's name yet. One of a list of names. Some belonged to people she hadn't even realised she cared about.
"What about your parents, then?" Pomfrey pressed.
She closed her eyes. Pomfrey misunderstood, because Hermione heard a sharp breath and then the matron said, "Oh, Merlin, Hermione – I didn't realise. Of course they were targets. So many Muggles were, and with their connection to you...I'm so sorry, dear–"
"It's okay," she said, raising a hand and opening her eyes. "They're fine. At least, I hope so. I, er, hid them." She pressed the heel of her hand to the middle of her forehead, where the headache pulsed so hard it was making her feel nauseous. "Getting them back – that's a job for when I'm in better shape."
"Ah. So you admit you aren't in the best shape right now?"
Hermione looked at Pomfrey. "I admit nothing."
Pomfrey huffed a laugh, but at least they were back on an even keel. "You need to sleep, Hermione, if you can. It's already after midnight. And by the way, a good night's sleep will do wonders for that headache you're not admitting to." Hermione glared. Pomfrey gave a small smile. "If you can get some rest, I'll see about letting you back up in the morning. After you've eaten a sensible breakfast."
"Haven't I just had several hours of sleep?" Hermione complained.
"Being unconscious isn't quite the same thing. Natural sleep is the best healer of them all." Pomfrey noted something in Hermione's expression. She nodded quietly, fished in the pocket of her apron and handed over a small vial of Dreamless Sleep.
Hermione schooled her expression to be as neutral as she could make it: never a trick she'd really mastered, but she was better at it now than she had been six months ago. "Thank you."
"It's only a short-term measure," Pomfrey pointed out.
Hermione knew a rush of impatience. She wasn't sure whether it was because Madam Pomfrey was stating the blindingly obvious, or whether it was because the statement was so damned inconvenient. Hermione knew that sooner or later she'd have to face her dreams. She also knew that she dreaded this event in a way she had never dreaded the showdown with Voldemort.
She threw back the potion, ignoring the soreness in her throat. Then she settled back in the bed. She still hurt in quite a lot of places, but she wrapped up those sensations, made them a part of herself rather than something she needed to react to. After all, she'd survived when others had not. She absolutely bloody well should be hurting.
Madam Pomfrey smoothed her hair from her face after Hermione closed her eyes. It was a caring gesture, a tender gesture, but the thing that soothed her more was the sound of those footsteps, moments later, as they moved away from her bedside.
~~~
"Hermione!"
It was Harry's voice. Of course it was. When her name was called like this, in panic or excitement or just plain need, it was only ever going to be Harry or Ron, and Ron was grieving with his family in Devon.
Harry led with his shoulder as he moved around Healers, Mediwitches and various visitors. A couple of friendly faces pointed him towards the bed in which Hermione was sullenly awaiting permission to get up. She'd eaten almost a whole bowl of porridge with honey and banana, even though it had made her stomach feel bloated and nauseous. It was the price she'd had to pay to gain permission to stand up and get dressed and join the grown-ups.
The problem, she had come to understand, with being a patient in a hospital bed was that you had no control over the people who inflicted their presence on you. Cormac McLaggen had been schmoozing around the ward that morning, and had insisted on settling in to enjoy a variety of friendly reminiscences with Hermione as she'd waited for breakfast. Obvious enough why, of course; half of McLaggen's family were high-ups in a Ministry that had failed to denounce an evil, racist Dark Wizard. Cormac had been sent in to re-establish key social connections in an attempt at damage limitation. Everything had to be about fucking politics, didn't it?
"There you are!" Harry gasped, like he'd run all the way from wherever he had been. His tone of voice seemed accusatory, like Hermione had made herself deliberately hard to find. "Thank god," he said, betraying his Muggle upbringing just for a moment as he caught his breath. He saw the vacant visitor's chair by the bedside and slumped into it. His eyes had the too-manic look of someone else who hadn't been sleeping properly. "Hermione, we've got to do something."
She arched a brow. "Any chance you could give me some specifics?"
"It's not there!" Harry exclaimed impatiently. Then he frowned at himself. "Oh. Right. See what you mean." He sighed, took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes and then put the glasses back on. "I've looked everywhere. People keep trying to tell me it's just a mistake. Like someone else must have it, or it's gone missing in the system, or something. The Aurors still at Hogwarts sent me to the morgue there, and the people there sent me to Hagrid's hut 'cause they're using the outbuilding – you know, the one where the pregnant Thestrals have their foals? – they're using it as a morgue for the Death Eater bodies. No one wanted them in the school. Anyway, it wasn't there either. And obviously I checked the Shrieking Shack. Three times, actually, and–"
"Snape," Hermione said, finally cottoning on to the mission Harry had apparently set for himself.
"Of course Snape!" Harry huffed impatience. "Who did you think I meant?"
"You didn't say."
"I didn't?"
"No."
"Oh. Sorry." Harry ruffled his unruly hair into even greater unruliness. "Haven't, er, been sleeping much."
That she could understand. She waited while Harry helped himself to a glass of water from her bedside table. He drank. He set the glass down. He smiled tiredly at Hermione, settled back in the chair and let his eyes wander for a moment around the rest of the ward.
He did an amusing double-take.
"Um – Hermione?"
"Yes Harry?"
"Why are you in a hospital bed?"
"I fell over. Madam Pomfrey overreacted."
Madam Pomfrey was, unfortunately, only two beds away and changing the dressings on Padma Patil's Acromantula-related injuries. The matron called over, "She collapsed through exhaustion, Mr. Potter, and you might remind your friend that I'm the one with the power to discharge her from the hospital's care."
Hermione blew out her cheeks in frustration. "What I meant to say," she tried again, "is that I collapsed through exhaustion, in a really dramatic way, and fortunately Madam Pomfrey was on hand to take care of me." Almost shouting, she added, "For which I'm very grateful!"
Padma smirked, as probably did the rest of the patients at this end of the ward. Pomfrey got up and came over to Hermione's bedside. The matron considered the two friends. She pursed her lips and looked disapproving in that very focused way that only school matrons could manage.
"Oh, honestly, you two," the matron finally said, "haven't you taken on enough of late?"
Pomfrey looked pointedly at Harry's jiggling leg. Harry looked pleadingly at her. Hermione crossed her arms over her chest.
Pomfrey just shook her head. "Fine. Hermione, you may get dressed. Your help has been much appreciated here, but I would be remiss if I allowed you to stay and assist us further. Go and find somewhere comfortable and relaxing. Try to rest, eat regularly, let your body begin to heal." She glared at Harry again. "And if you can't do that, try at least to ensure that your closest friends are keeping track of your well-being."
"Yes. Fine. We'll do that." Hermione yanked the bedclothes back and tossed her feet over the edge of the bed. "Right Harry?"
Harry's face went crimson. Hermione had forgotten that at some point in the last sixteen hours Madam Pomfrey had removed her clothing and put her in a hospital gown.
Pomfrey just rolled her eyes and, with a flick of her wand, swished privacy curtains into place. Harry turned his back, which at least was better than running for the exits as he might have done before their camping sojourn of the last six months. Hermione ignored his embarrassment and got dressed.
"So you went looking for Professor Snape's body," she said conversationally as she pulled clothing over a body that was too bony and bruised to warrant close inspection.
"Yeah. Didn't want him getting thrown in with the Death Eaters. I know it's far too late, but I wanted to give him some respect."
She considered the silvery mess that Snape had leaked all over the floor of the Shrieking Shack, along with the blood from his torn-to-bits throat. Harry had told her the most salient points he'd learned from those memories, but Hermione hadn't got all of it straightened out in her head yet. Harry now seemed to think Snape was a hero who'd been unjustifiably abused his whole life. Ron still figured Snape for a malicious git who'd changed sides out of convenience. Hermione was pretty sure the truth was somewhere in the middle.
"Thing is," Harry went on, talking determinedly to the privacy curtain in front of his nose, "I'm worried. There's still Death Eaters out there. Some of them can do necromancy. If Snape's body's been stolen by the bad guys..."
"You're thinking Inferius," Hermione said, grimacing at the idea even as she mentally reviewed all that she knew of such creatures from her extensive reading in various libraries.
"I'm trying really hard not to," Harry admitted.
She sat down to lace up her trainers. "I'm decent." Harry turned around. "Fine. So the body's been moved from the Shack. He isn't in either of the makeshift morgues at the school." Hermione tried to think logically. "Is it possible Kingsley realised that Snape's body might be a target for any Death Eaters still at large? Had it removed himself?"
"No. I've already asked him if his Aurors saw to Snape's remains. He gave no instructions."
Hermione stood up. "Right then. I need to grab my bag from the staff room downstairs, then I'm all yours. We'll get started." She might have been dismissed from her role as volunteer helper at the over-stuffed St. Mungo's, but fate had offered her a new way of keeping occupied.
Harry caught her arm. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I've had a decent sleep and I ate all my porridge like a good girl." She rolled her eyes. "Please. Can we just go and do something?"
They made their way down from the first floor ward to the ground level, starting to toss around theories about what might have happened to Snape's body. Those theories quickly grew far-fetched. As they emerged from the stairwell into the open reception area, Harry was saying:
"...the centaurs from the Forbidden Forest claimed his body in order to protect him. Or honour him. Or something?"
Hermione said, "Did you see hoof-marks in the Shack?"
"Um, no. Okay, then maybe Hagrid's Acromantula friend sent lots of little skittery non-footprint-leaving spiders in to get the–"
He stopped there, interrupted by the familiar loud crack of Apparition. Several heads turned towards the alcove where incoming emergency cases tended to arrive. A man appeared there, staggering slightly under the weight of the unconscious body he held in his arms.
Harry gasped and then smacked himself in the face as he pressed his palm over his mouth.
Hermione swallowed hard and locked her knees against the tremor that shook her body.
It was Lucius Malfoy, looking as dishevelled as she had ever seen him. His robes were torn and creased, his silver-blonde hair was lank and streaked with dirt and what looked like blood. Most pertinently, he held in his arms a body that was far too tall and unwieldy for Malfoy to be carrying about like they were trying to recreate a scene from 'An Officer and a Gentleman'. The body itself was partly swathed in dusty black robes, and the head which drooped lifelessly beyond Malfoy's left arm ended in a matted tangle of blacker-than-black hair.
Everyone in reception had stopped and stared, like customers in a Western saloon when the dangerous stranger makes an appearance. Hermione waited for the honky-tonk piano to start up again, then realised that she was thinking nonsense. She put it down to a need to distract herself from the fact that this was the first time she'd seen Malfoy at close quarters since the torturous ordeal she had suffered under his roof at the hands of his sister-in-law.
Malfoy said, "Someone help." While his voice was not so commanding as usual, the way his legs crumpled beneath him and the weight of his charge finally spurred the Healers into action.
The body, undeniably Snape's, was levitated to a height where it could be examined. Meanwhile Malfoy was also being subjected to diagnostic charms as he knelt on the floor, his head dropping forward, his energies clearly spent.
Two of the Aurors Shacklebolt had stationed at St. Mungo's moved closer. One of them was already sending a Patronus with a message.
The Healer examining Snape exclaimed, "There's a pulse!"
Next to Hermione, Harry managed to gasp again in spite of his hand pressing his mouth.
Malfoy grumbled, "Of course there's a pulse, half-wit. Not much point bringing him here if there wasn't." He lifted his head and looked over to the Healers seeing to Snape. "He's stable for now but he needs the antivenin for Nagini."
Snape was moved towards the lift, with his team of Healers exchanging various instructions. An Auror went with them. The remaining Auror was prevented from grasping Malfoy by the arm when a bustling Mediwizard pointed out that Malfoy had several injuries that required treatment.
Hermione realised that Harry was holding her hand very tightly with the hand which wasn't clamped over his mouth. (It might have been her doing the holding-on, since she didn't really want to let go.) She was glad of the contact when Malfoy was helped to his feet and looked around at the reception area. His cold grey eyes noticed her. Hermione felt a mortifying twist in the area of her bladder, and she shifted her position so that she could do her best to control the need to urinate.
For long, timeless moments her mind took her back to Malfoy Manor and tossed her through memories of pain, helplessness and violation. She bit her lip hard enough to hurt, and hated herself for her own weakness.
Malfoy paused as the medical staff tried to bustle him away. He drew himself up, shoulders back, and looked at Harry.
"Congratulations on your victory, Mr. Potter," he said quietly. He glanced at Hermione. "Miss Granger." Then he turned and walked away, the remaining Auror following close behind.
Harry, finally, found his voice. His hand dropped to his side. "But..."
And that was all he could manage.
Hermione sighed. "We'll find out soon enough," she said. "Nothing we can do here, for now."
She needed to shower. She needed to think. And she probably needed to put in an appearance at the Burrow.
~~~