Gift for Lifeasanamazon
In enthusiastic thanks for all of your help with my various writing projects and for being an all-around wonderful person. I hope you enjoy this!
Title: I Fall to Pieces
Fandom: Harry Potter
Ship: SS/HG
Word Count: ~10,000
Warnings: EWE, some slight medical stuff
Disclaimer: © 2010 Mundungus42. All rights reserved. This work may not be archived, reproduced, or distributed in any format without prior written permission from the author. This is an amateur, non-profit work and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by JKR or any other lawful holder. Permission may be obtained by e-mailing the author at mundungus42 at yahoo dot com
Summary: For lifeasanamazon, who prompted me thus: I'm a sucker for a little hurt/comfort. A broken wand has unforeseen repercussions.
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Hermione knew what happened when a wizard or witch continued to use a damaged wand. However, her own wand had never given her a moment’s trouble since the moment she picked it up in Ollivander’s all those years ago. So when a boy on a skateboard crashed into her while she went shopping for a new mobile phone in Muggle London, she didn’t even think to ensure that the contents of her bag had not been damaged in the accident. Who could blame her for being more concerned about her wrist, which she was having trouble moving, than her reliable old wand, whose vine wood shone as brightly as it had on the day she’d bought it?
Fortunately, her new mobile had a sensitive touch-screen keyboard, so her wrist merely ached as she texted her bench mate, explaining that she was going to St. Mungo's and asking him to finish the experiment she'd started that morning. He'd grumble, but it would get done. Satisfied that all would be well at work for the rest of the day, she descended into Oxford Circus tube station and stepped into the hidden Apparation point near the turnstiles. Ever since that long-ago break-in at Gringott's, Hermione detested going underground, but it was the quickest way to St. Mungo's. She pulled out her wand and performed the same action that she had performed several times daily for the past fifteen years.
The last thing she remembered was knowing instinctively that something was very, very wrong.
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She was drifting slowly towards consciousness on a bed of cloud. Her sluggish brain knew that waking was inevitable, but she resisted all the same by banishing coherent thought to the periphery of her mind as long as possible. She tried to roll over onto her side and burrow deeply into the bedclothes, only to find that her body was not responding to her brain’s orders.
Her eyes flew open, and she realised that she was not in her own bed, but lying in a white room with institutional furnishings. She gasped as her last memories flashed through her mind. The accident. Her text to Severus. Apparating to St. Mungo’s. And then nothing. Dear Dido, had she Splinched herself? She looked down at her body, which was concealed beneath a sheet. There was a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach when she realised the sheet wasn’t rising and falling with her breath.
She glanced to the side of the bed at the bell pull that could be used to summon the Healers and growled in frustration. She couldn’t reach it, not with her body in this strange paralysis. So she did the next best thing. She yelled.
“OI!”
There was a scuffle out in the hallway followed by a loud crash, exactly as if someone who had been sitting in a chair outside the room had fallen off it. Sure enough, Ron Weasley crawled sheepishly into view, and his face broke into an enormous grin.
“Hermione!” he exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. “Thank Merlin! They didn’t know when you were going to wake up!”
“Did I get Splinched?” asked Hermione. “I can’t move anything. Is that a side effect of whatever spell they used to put me back together?”
Ron’s face fell. “You- well, I’d better get a Healer to explain.”
“Ronald Weasley!” she exclaimed. “Tell me what’s wrong with me this instant!”
He looked extremely unhappy. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Just tell me.”
“It’s easier to show you, really,” he said. “Are you sure you-”
“Just do it,” she ordered, forcefully tamping down the panic she was feeling.
Ron swallowed hard and pulled back the sheet to reveal what was underneath.
Hermione lowered her chin as well as she could to see the state she was in and was shocked to find nothing. She had no body. As far as she could see, her body ended below the chin. She gasped, feeling the ghost of her chest rise, but seeing nothing but bedclothes below.
“The Healers Charmed the sheet to make it look like you’re still here,” Ron explained. “It’s, well, a bit disconcerting to see you like this.”
Hermione couldn’t agree more. “Where exactly has the rest of me gone?” she asked faintly.
“They’re not sure,” said Ron, running his fingers through his hair.
Hermione frowned. “All right, then why haven’t I bled to death or been dosed with a thousand potions to keep me alive?”
“You’re completely stable, which is something else they’re not quite sure about, either,” said Ron. “The Healer said I should find him as soon as you regained consciousness.”
“How long have I been out?”
“A couple of hours,” answered Ron. “Harry and I came as soon as we heard. He’s cross-examining an expert in Splinching to see if we can figure out where the rest of you went.”
“That’s not likely to do much good, now is it, Weasley?” came a deep voice from the doorway.
“She hasn’t been Splinched.”
Hermione looked up in surprise to see her bench partner standing in the door. How on earth had he found out so quickly?
“She Apparated and most of her never arrived at the right place,” argued Ron. “If that’s not Splinching, I don’t know what is.”
“That you don’t know the meaning of Splinching is patently obvious,” said Severus. “As Hermione is neither bleeding nor are her missing parts at the Apparation point she used, she has not been Splinched.”
“How did you know that?” asked Hermione in surprise. “The Apparation point, I mean. It’s not as though it could have been traced.”
“The magical signature couldn’t,” he replied smugly, “but your mobile signal could.”
“Hang on,” said Ron, still trying to suss out what Severus had said. “Old Twycross said that Splinching is the separation of body parts. She’s separated, yeah?”
“He also said that Splinching is a result of being insufficiently determined,” argued Hermione.
“I Apparate every day. I know exactly how much determination is necessary. My wrist was sore, but it wasn’t enough of a distraction to make me Splinch. I was able to send the text to Severus, after all.”
“The incident had nothing to do with your Apparation skills,” said Severus. “It had everything to do with this.”
He held out a handful of splinters and tiny pieces of sparkling debris.
Hermione stared at the pile of detritus uncomprehendingly for a moment. “Circe,” she said softly. “My wand.”
“Hang on,” said Ron. “Where did you find that?”
“It was scattered about the Apparation point,” said Severus.
“Did you tell the Healers?” demanded Ron, whose crimson earlobes were indicating that he was just on the near side of losing his temper.
“Of course I did,” said Severus in the quelling voice that he usually reserved for putting the fear of Merlin into first years. “Now why don’t you make yourself useful and fetch Healer Jones? He’ll want to speak to her.”
Ron looked slightly put out, but he nodded. “Right.”
Once Ron had disappeared down the hallway, Severus was at her side. Hermione hadn’t regretted her lack of hands so acutely until she realised that her usually reserved colleague would have been holding one of hers.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” said Hermione. “As odd as it sounds, I feel physically fine.”
“And the rest?” he asked, his gaze penetrating, even without the use of Occlumency.
“I’ve been better,” she admitted.
He smoothed her curls back from her forehead, a gesture that in another situation would have been uncomfortably intimate, but it soothed her, nonetheless. “If you were in any immediate danger, it would have manifested itself before now,” he said. It was oddly reassuring.
“True,” came a voice from the door. “But that doesn’t mean that time isn’t of the essence.” A man with kindly dark eyes wearing Healer’s robes bustled into her room. Behind him floated a pad of paper and a Quick-Quotes Quill. “I’m Healer Jones, head of the Spell Damage Ward. Please tell us what happened. And leave out no details. They could be important.”
She related her shopping trip and the accident, slightly irritated at having to explain in exacting detail what a skateboard was and why anybody would use such a thing. The Quick-Quotes Quill scratched away, and Healer Jones looked thoughtful. “What can you feel of your body, Hermione?”
She closed her eyes. “I can feel myself breathing, but only slightly. I’m lying on my back on a flat surface. My right arm feels cold, like the air surrounding it is cold. My left arm feels like it’s pressing upward into a rough, gravelly surface, so it must be lying the wrong way up. The air feels cool, but not cold. My left leg is lying on something flat, but not too hard, and my right leg is on something very soft-that’s about all.”
The Healer’s eyes were serious. “This complicates matters,” he said. “We’ve seen cases where the body ends up in two different places, but you seem to be scattered in four or five. Apparation with a damaged wand usually results in appearing in the wrong place or Splinching. That yours was a very powerful wand is without question, but not so powerful as to have done this without extenuating circumstances.”
“Such as?” asked Hermione.
Healer Jones looked at Severus. “Mister Snape suggested that perhaps the type of damage to your wand is to blame.”
“Well, obviously,” said Ron. “It exploded and blew her to kingdom come through the Apparation spell.”
“In simple terms, yes, that’s what happened,” said Healer Jones, patiently. “But I think he meant to explain how so much energy was released, which is something of a mystery.”
Hermione looked into her colleague’s dark eyes and considered. “I didn’t notice anything wrong with the wand,” she murmured. “So it must have sustained a hairline crack in the collision. Oh,” she said, eyes widening. “Oh, my.”
Ron looked confused. “Come again?”
“Remember when I showed you how Muggle fireworks work? What happens when you put a flame to a pile of gunpowder?”
“It sort of fizzles,” said Ron, grinning. “George was so disappointed.”
“So imagine a Unicorn hair as gunpowder-it doesn’t do much by itself. But when you pack gunpowder tightly into a tube that’s open on one end, it shoots off in the opposite direction. The vascular system of the wood surrounding the magical core channels the magical energy away from your body and out the end of your wand, like a bottle rocket, and that’s how you cast spells. But you remember what happens if there’s no clear way to channel the gunpowder's explosion or more than one opening?”
“Yeah,” said Ron soberly. “There’s not enough thrust to send the rocket in the direction it’s supposed to go, so it just explodes.”
Healer Jones nodded. “Well, that makes sense, theoretically.”
“I am a theoretician,” said Hermione matter-of-factly. “Though I hope you’ll excuse me if I don’t volunteer to perform any additional proofs of that particular theory.”
Severus snorted.
“Can you move your limbs at all?” asked Healer Jones.
“I tried earlier,” said Hermione. “It didn’t work.”
“What if you focus on a particular one?” persisted the Healer. “If your limbs arrived in places unknown, attracting attention to them with noise or motion might lead to their recovery.”
“All right,” Hermione said and closed her eyes. She focused on her left arm, largely because it was the least comfortable of her limbs. Whatever it was lying on was lumpy and uneven, and to move it, even to rest its weight on a different part of the arm, would be a relief. She knew in her mind that without the tendons of the shoulder, large movements would be well-nigh impossible. But she might be able to do something with her fingers and wrist. Slowly, she flexed her index finger and felt the suggestion of her finger move.
Her eyes flew open, and her hand flopped back to the lumpy surface.
“I did it,” she said. “I wiggled my finger.”
“Excellent!” said the Healer. “Now, try to bend your wrist. You don’t need to lift the hand, just use the wrist to drag the hand across the ground.”
Hermione closed her eyes, visualised the action and used her fingers to slide her arm to the side. As her far-off limb obeyed, she was suddenly aware of her fingers brushing against something hard and smooth.
“Wait,” she said. “There’s something there.” She reached with her other fingers and slid the tips against the mystery object. “It feels like metal,” she said. “It’s cool to the-wait, no it’s heating up. Ow!” Her fingers reflexively withdrew, but suddenly the metal object was lying against her hand.
“What was that?” asked Ron.
“It’s burning!” she exclaimed, trying to pull her powerless arm away from the hot metal, but it was as if the object was attacking her. Soon her wrist was being burned, then her forearm. It was like something viscous and molten was being spread across her skin. She was trying not to cry out, but tears were welling in her eyes.
“Hermione!” exclaimed Ron, who looked near to tears himself.
“Tell me what you feel,” said Healer Jones, leaning toward her and holding her gaze.
“It’s all over,” she choked out, “the burning. It feels like my whole arm is being dipped in boiling oil. Please, make it stop? I can’t-”
“For Merlin’s sake, man!” exploded Severus, whose voice sounded oddly far away.
“Stay with us, Hermione,” repeated Healer Jones. “What does it feel like?”
“She’s said what it feels like!” howled Ron, which brought her back to herself.
“It’s like the cup,” she said, a moment of clarity breaking through the growing agony. It was the last conscious thought she had before there was a flash of red light and blessed darkness descended.
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Hermione awoke once more to the sound of raised voices in the hallway. She was relieved to realise that her arm no longer felt as if it would be burned to a cinder, but she soon discovered that the conversation outside her door was far more interesting.
“For the last time, it was an ACCIDENT!” bellowed a familiar voice. Harry. Hermione smiled in spite of herself.
“You expect us to believe,” returned a harsh croak of a voice, “that the girl, a second time, just happened to appear in the same vault-”
“I don’t care what you believe,” said Harry coldly. “You have no case. Speak to my superior if you wish. There’s nothing here to suggest anything criminal-”
“Other than that it’s the girl’s arm,” growled the voice, which sounded distinctly Goblin-ish.
“We are running an inventory of all our other vaults to ensure that no other parts of her are lingering in any of them, waiting to do her bidding.”
“You do that,” said Harry. “And if you breathe one word of this to the papers-”
“Mister Potter,” said the voice scornfully. “This breach of security could cause a run on our institution if this were to be made public. But if you want to shield your friend from retribution, then I will have your wand oath that you will coerce her to reveal how she broke through our security measures again-” he paused, and Hermione suspected he was smirking nastily, “- singled-handedly.”
“You have it,” said Harry seriously.
“Good day, Mister Potter.”
“Good day, Master Goldsmiter.”
Hermione was impressed in spite of herself. The head of Gringotts himself had taken an interest. And that also explained the debilitating pain-a phantom shiver ran through her as she thought of that awful day, all those years ago, when they had liberated Helga Hufflepuff’s cup from the Lestrange’s vault. Given the events of the rest of the day, the memory was vague, though study and long thought had made it less so. But why on earth had her arm appeared there? She was distracted from this quandary by the sudden realisation that if her arm had been found, it was likely that it had been reattached.
She looked down at the sheet that concealed her lack of limbs and concentrated very hard on flexing her fingers once again. They felt stiff and slightly sore, but they moved, albeit sluggishly, bandaged fingertips brushing the bed sheet. Hermione sighed in relief. Even if she never located the rest of her body, at least she could still use a wand.
“All right?” asked Harry, entering her room. He looked haggard.
“All right,” she said, giving him a smile. “Thanks for dealing with the goblins.”
“S’alright,” he said, running his fingers through his hair and sitting down with a sigh. “So how do you reckon your arm turned up in the Lestrange’s vault?”
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
“What a surprise,” said Ron from the doorway. He was carrying a tray with several cups of tea on it. Hermione was pleased to see that one of them had a straw sticking out of it, presumably for her use.
Severus, who entered quietly behind Ron, arranged Hermione’s tea on the bedside table and gently put the straw in her mouth while Harry conjured chairs for them around her.
Hermione took a sip of the hot tea, smooth with milk, and sighed. She had no idea where the tea was going, but it soothed her mouth and throat, which were rough from screaming.
“A few months ago, I started having dreams about the war. Nightmares, really. I went to talk to a Healer about getting a prescription for Dreamless Sleep, but he’s something of an holistic Healer and thought that the dreams were there for a reason. He suggested that I write them down in a journal and see if it helps.”
Severus looked supremely sceptical. “Does it?”
“Well, I haven’t had a nightmare since I started writing,” she said. “But it made me realise how little the emotional scars have healed. I’m confident it will be better when I get all my recollections down on paper.”
“Yeah, I can imagine how painful it must be for you now, knowing that you fancied Ron,” said Harry.
“Oi!” exclaimed Ron, cuffing Harry on the bicep.
“So you believe that the emotional turmoil related to your revisiting the events of the past have manifested themselves physically,” said Severus. He glared at Harry and Ron, who were still trading friendly punches.
“I can’t think of any other reason for my arm to have appeared there of all places, other than that it’s the site of one of our nearer brushes with death.”
“So should we check the others?” asked Harry.
“I don’t think this single instance is sufficient to extrapolate from with any degree of accuracy,” argued Severus.
“Severus is right,” said Hermione. “As much as I’d like to assign the location some sort of meaning, it’s also possible that my body's ended up in a completely random set of locations that I’ve physically visited.”
“So what should we do, just wait?” asked Ron. “What for? It’s not like her leg’s just going to walk through the door, now-”
He broke off as Healer Jones appeared in the doorway, floating Hermione’s left leg a few inches above the ground with his wand.
“Good news!” he announced. “This was just delivered to the Welcome Witch by Aberforth Dumbledore.”
“Aberforth had my leg?” asked Hermione, faintly.
“Best check it for goat bites,” said Ron.
“It was in the Shrieking Shack,” said Healer Jones. “Aberforth volunteers as a docent there twice a week. He found it lying near where Mister Snape fell. Begging your pardon.”
Severus waved his hand impatiently, and the Healer lifted Hermione’s sheet and laid the leg where it would normally be. It looked rather despondent lying by itself on the stark white linen, clad in a single trouser leg and cheery yellow flat.
“I’m afraid I can’t re-attach it until there’s something to attach it to. Besides, we only had partial luck re-attaching your arm. It probably won’t take fully until all the other parts are back together. Do you have any theories on where the other parts might be?”
“Nothing definite to go on.”
“There is one thing,” said Healer Jones, holding out a form. “St. Mungo’s could place an advertisement in the Prophet notifying them of the missing parts and asking them to be returned to the hospital. It would be completely anonymous, of course.”
“Thank you,” said Severus swiftly, “that won’t be necessary.”
Hermione looked at him curiously for a moment, but nodded. “He’s right,” she said. “If my suspicion is correct, a public search isn’t likely to turn up much, and I’d rather alert as few people to my predicament as possible, even if they don’t know it’s me.”
Healer Jones put the form back on his clipboard. “Very well,” he said. “If you’re sure. But there’s really nothing more I can do for you until more pieces of your body show up.”
“I understand. Thank you, Healer Jones.” When he had left, Hermione turned to Severus. “What was that about?”
“If a person finds a body part that’s obviously still alive, most would turn it in to St. Mungo’s or the Ministry. If someone reads an ad asking it to be returned, the first thing on that person’s mind will be remuneration.”
“You reckon?” asked Ron, surprised. “Well, maybe. What do you think, Harry?”
“Wha?” asked Harry, whose had been resting his head in his hands. His palms had left red marks on either side of his face.
“Harry, are you all right?” asked Hermione. “You look awful.”
“It’s nothing. I’ve just got an enormous headache. Dealing with Goblins will do that to you.”
“Potter, you’re dead on your feet,” said Severus. “You’ve done enough. Go home to your family and get some rest.”
It was a sign of how horrid Harry was feeling that he didn’t argue. “You’ll be all right?” he asked Hermione.
“I will,” she assured him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. You coming, Ron?”
“What? Oh!” he exclaimed. “I completely forgot! Ginny's invited me to supper tonight! But I don’t have to go,” he said hurriedly. “If you’d rather I stayed.”
“It’s all right, Ron. I don’t think there’s much we can do tonight, anyway. Enjoy your supper.”
He looked meaningfully at Severus. “You’ll be all right with him?”
“I’m all right with him eight hours a day, five days a week,” she said. “More if we’re working on a grant.”
“Go away, Weasley,” said Severus, unhelpfully.
Ron shot him a scowl on his way out.
“You really shouldn’t bait them like that,” admonished Hermione. “All it does is ensure that they cluck over me like concerned hens.”
“I shall try to refrain from ruffling their feathers,” conceded Severus, taking her hand, “at least until this is over.”
Because the arm wasn’t completely stuck on, Hermione couldn’t squeeze his hand with much reassurance, but he seemed to know it for what it was. He sat by her bedside for long minutes in companionable silence, rubbing warm circles with his thumb on an unbandaged part of her hand. It felt wonderful, and the different parts of her body, wherever they were, echoed back her pleasure.
She sighed. “You don’t have to stay with me, you know,” she said. “Merlin knows you get enough of my company at work.”
“I’ve always enjoyed a challenge,” he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ll get us some food. The canteen doesn’t have much, but there’s a chippy on the corner, if that’s amenable to you.”
Somewhere far away, Hermione’s stomach rumbled. “Thank you, I haven’t had anything since breakfast. Cod fillet and chips if they’ve got them.”
“Try to rest,” he said, heading for the door.
Hermione closed her eyes, but a curious sensation in her absent right leg caused them to fly open again. “Severus!” she whispered.
He froze. “What is it?”
“Someone is rubbing my leg. The one that’s not here.”
“This is the one that was lying on something soft, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“And someone is rubbing it?”
“Well, caressing it,” she said, flushing. “And, erm, massaging my thigh.”
Severus’s expression was thunderous. “What kind of person would do such a thing?” Suddenly, his scowl deepened. “What shoes are you wearing?”
“The yellow flats with snakeskin trim,” she said. Her eyes widened. “You don’t think-”
Severus swore suddenly. “It makes sense,” he said. “We’ve had Gringotts, where you experienced mortal terror: the Shrieking Shack, where you witnessed attempted murder, and now the place where you were tortured.”
“He’s taking off my shoe, now,” said Hermione faintly, her face paling.
“I’ll take care of it,” said Severus. “And Hermione? Do try not to enjoy yourself too much. You’ll only feel dirty in the morning.”
This startled a laugh out of her. “If he tries anything disgusting, I will do my best to kick him somewhere sensitive.”
“And if you’re unable to, my inside knowledge and revenge plotting skills are at your disposal for use at a later date.” Hermione couldn’t suppress a grin at the predatory smirk she saw reflected in the window as he turned to walk down the corridor.
Because she was waiting for it, Hermione knew the moment Severus had recovered her leg. The lascivious touches had abruptly ceased, presumably when Severus arrived at the manor, and a few minutes later, there was a warm squeeze on her ankle. Hermione sighed in relief and went promptly to sleep.
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The next morning, Hermione awoke to a loud clatter of wood and metal. She opened her eyes to find Ron wheeling in a portable chalkboard.
“We borrowed it from the boardroom down the hall,” he said. “Oh, and they found your other arm. Snape’s filling out the paperwork on it, right now.”
“Where was it?”
“An old storeroom in the Ministry,” replied Ron.
“That’s odd,” said Hermione, who was slightly disappointed to see the pattern break down. It didn’t bode well for recovering her still-missing parts.
“Not if you consider that the storeroom in question was where we found Umbridge interrogating Muggle-borns,” said Ron.
Hermione shivered at the memory. That was another fairly awful time during which she’d been terrified out of her mind.
“So all we’re missing is your middle,” said Ron cheerfully. “Oh, and Harry says sorry he can’t be here. Says he’s still feeling rotten, so he’s taking the day off work.”
“You don’t think it had anything to do with the oath the Goblins extracted from him, do you?” asked Hermione, concerned.
“Doubtful,” said Severus, appearing in the doorway with her arm. “Wand oaths are more a matter of honour than binding magic like an Unbreakable Vow.”
He pulled back the sheet and placed her arm in its proper place. Now that it was so much closer to her, she could feel his warm fingers and wished she’d worn a short-sleeved blouse on her shopping trip.
“Right,” said Ron, raising a piece of chalk to the blackboard. “So, here are the parts we know.”
Left Arm -Lestrange’s Gringotts vault, near death by treasure
Left Leg - Shrieking Shack, near death by snake
Right Leg- Malfoy Manor, near death by insane cow
Right Arm- Ministry of Magic, near death by ugly cow
Torso - ???
“Right,” said Ron. “It seems pretty obvious what these locations have in common. So all we need to do is suss out all the other places where Hermione nearly died, or saw people die, that year before Harry killed You-Know-Who and look there.”
“There was Godric’s Hollow,” she said, shuddering.
“Right. ‘Death by fake old lady',” said Ron, writing it down.
“There was the air skirmish with the Polyjuiced Potters,” volunteered Snape, his expression daring anyone to comment.
“Right, ‘death by Death Eaters',” said Ron. “Make that ‘death by flying Death Eaters’ so we can tell the difference between that and the Battle of Hogwarts, which should be ‘death by attacking Death Eaters'.”
“How efficient,” said Severus, only half sneering.
“There were others,” said Hermione. “Better add ‘death by Erumpent horn,’ ‘death by dragon,’ and ‘death by Fiendfyre,’ to the list, too.”
“And of course, ‘death by starvation’ and ‘death by eating the wrong mushrooms',” added Ron. “I think that’s the lot for that year.”
Snape examined the list thoughtfully. “Despite the incidents of mortal peril you managed to get into on your own, I suspect that the preponderance of deaths and near deaths you witnessed occurred during the Battle of Hogwarts. Despite not having the advantage of a magical map, I flatter myself that I know the grounds as well, or better, than even the current Headmistress.”
“Right,” said Ron, his voice gruff. “I’ll take Godric’s Hollow and the Forest of Dean. I owe you and Harry trips there, anyway. See you, Hermione, Snape.”
“Thanks, Ron,” said Hermione. “I don’t know where I’d be without your help.”
“You don’t know where you are even with my help,” said Ron, grinning. “You’ll be all right.”
When Ron had gone, Severus turned to Hermione. “I apologise for not having read any of the tell-alls written about your adventures at Hogwarts, but if you could tell me approximately where these incidents occurred, I will search the places thoroughly. I don’t wish to bring up painful memories unnecessarily-”
“It’s all right,” interrupted Hermione. “Not being able to face painful memories is, I suspect, what got me into this predicament. The first may be difficult. Death by Fiendfyre occurred in the Room of Requirement. It could be dangerous-for all I know, the room is still burning.”
”Unlikely. Fiendfyre dies out once it has consumed everything in its path,” said Snape, matter-of-factly.
Hermione attempted to nod, but her head wouldn’t move. “Right. We fought on the front lawn, in front of the gates,” she said. “That’s where most of it happened. Ron and I went down to the Chamber of Secrets for the Basilisk fang we used to destroy the cup, but we weren’t in danger there.” She swallowed hard. “Then there was Voldemort in the Great Hall, but that wasn’t so much traumatic as it was anti-climactic. And if you’re already there, you might check the base of the Astronomy Tower where, you know...”
“Yes,” said Severus simply. “I had thought to check there as well. Also the tunnel leading to the Shrieking Shack and several locations in Hogsmeade.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I know this can't be much fun. If anybody has more traumatic memories of the place than I do, it would be you.”
“They’re only places, Hermione,” he said softly. “Coming to terms with what one has done or failed to do has less to do with visiting the places in person and everything to do with visiting them in one’s thoughts.”
“How did you do it?” she asked him seriously. “How did you get over it?”
“I will never be ‘over it',” he said, “but I am fortunate enough to have had a great deal of contentment since, and I look forward to having a great deal more.”
Hermione gave him a warm smile. “I worry that we’ve made an optimist of you, Severus.”
“Perish the thought,” he said, pressing his lips gently to her forehead. “I am merely a realist with prospects.”
Hermione acutely felt the absence of having a body she could control, wanting nothing more than to embrace the man she’d come to value as a colleague, appreciate as a man, and depend on in ways she could have never imagined. She looked at him and realised that she completely lacked the words to say what she was feeling. However, the warm glow in Severus’s eyes as he looked back at her from the doorway made her confident that he knew.
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When the auxiliary nurse came in to feed her breakfast, Hermione ate ravenously. Once her far-off belly was full, she found that her mind was working more quickly as well and had the auxiliary assist her in putting on her wireless headset and arranging her unburnt arm above the sheet with her mobile phone, so she could call the lab and ask one of the others there to put her ingredients in stasis, only to find that Severus had already done it.
She was about to turn on the Wireless Wizarding Network to catch up with news of the outside world when Severus burst into the room, floating her torso in front of him. She was vaguely disappointed that he was not holding her around the waist, but she supposed it was wiser. As titillating as the thought of Severus coming into contact with her breasts was, she would much prefer the contact to be both deliberate and mutually stimulating.
“I’ve called for Healer Jones,” he said abruptly, settling her torso back into place. “If we’re lucky, you’ll be whole before Weasley gets back.”
Hermione grinned up at him, her eyes wet. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Where was it?”
“The Room of Requirement, which is, I’m pleased to report, completely Fiendfyre-free and beginning to fill with student contraband once more.”
“This way!” came a voice from the hallway.
To Hermione’s dismay, Healer Jones was followed by a posse of similarly-dressed men and women.
“This is one of the more unusual cases I’ve seen recently,” said Healer Jones. “What appeared to be a clear-cut case of Splinching has turned into a hunt for missing body parts spanning from Diagon Alley to Hogwarts.”
The attending witches and wizards oohed appropriately, which turned into a flurry of whispers when they recognised her. Fortunately, they fell silent when Severus drew himself up to his full height.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
“Healers-in-training,” said Healer Jones. “I thought they would find the patient’s Reunification interesting, as it’s a highly unusual treatment.”
“It’s all right, Severus,” said Hermione, giving him a quelling look to forestall the invective that would inevitably be flying. “Please proceed, Healer Jones.”
Healer Jones pulled back the sheet to reveal Hermione’s split body, and the trainees gasped. Several of them began to ask questions, but Healer Jones raised his hand to forestall them. “Please hold all questions until after the procedure,” he said, raising his wand impressively. “Confero!”
A warm yellow glow emanated from the Healer’s wand, and Hermione sighed. The spell felt nice. However, when he was finished, Hermione saw that she was still in pieces.
“How long until the spell works?”
Healer Jones was frowning. “It should be instantaneous. Confero!”
Hermione felt the beginnings of fear settle in her stomach. “What’s wrong?”
The Healer turned to look at Severus. “Are you sure these are all hers?”
From the paleness of Severus’s cheeks, Hermione suspected the Healer would not be long for this world, but then it occurred to her. “Of course,” said Hermione softly. “I’m not all here, yet.”
“What?” asked Severus, his brow impressively furrowed.
“Healer Jones,” said Hermione, “you said earlier that you couldn’t reattach my arm because there were still too many pieces missing. What if I’m still missing pieces inside?”
The Healer looked ready to argue, if only for the sake of his dignity, but waved his wand over her. Diagnostic spells had never been Hermione’s forte. Indeed, the blurry picture that was supposed to be a wizard or witch’s insides looked more like a pinkish blur, but apparently it meant something to the trainees, who all gasped.
“Ah,” said Healer Jones. “That would appear to be the problem.”
“What is it?” asked Hermione, trying to make sense of the image that was floating above her chest.
“You have no heart,” said Severus, his voice flat and inflectionless.
The trainees began to whisper among themselves. “If you would kindly follow me,” said Healer Jones in a loud voice, “we will adjourn to the Healer’s lounge to discuss this case.”
As the trainees filed out, Severus shot Healer Jones a dark look. “See that they speak to no-one about this,” he said in his most dangerous voice.
“Even Healers-in-training have taken an oath of confidentiality,” assured Healer Jones. “However, I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be able to keep your condition a secret, Ms Granger.”
“We’re aware of the stakes, thank you,” said Severus icily. “We shall inform you when the missing organ is located.”
Healer Jones nodded shortly and retreated to the hall.
“We’re missing something,” said Hermione, frowning at the list of missing body parts, to which Severus had added “heart,” which he'd followed with a lonely-looking dash.
“There is a long list of places that you were exposed to murderous intent, and every portion that we have recovered has been in one of them,” said Severus irritably. “What makes you think we’re missing something?”
Hermione knew from long experience that Severus wasn’t angry with her, merely frustrated with how the work was going. “Call it a hunch,” said Hermione, “but I’ve been thinking about the nightmares I had about the war.”
“The ones that went away when you started writing them down?” asked Severus, in a voice that clearly encouraged her to get to the point.
“Yes. They were often about death, but they weren’t only that. It’s rather hard to describe, but death wasn’t the horror of the dreams. The terrifying part was that I was the cause.”
Severus sat on the chair next to her bed, gazing at her from beneath lowered lids. “How so?”
“Well, there was one dream about Godric’s Hollow,” she said in a halting voice. “I dreamed that Harry died that night because I’d broken his wand. Another time, I dreamed that Ron had died because I hadn’t been brave enough to try to put out the Fiendfyre. Or that Fred died because I hadn’t cast a Shield Charm quickly enough. Or that you died because I didn’t even try to-” She broke off as tears began to slide down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Severus,” she choked out.
She knew Severus was not a demonstrative man, but the stricken look on his face brought her up short. “Hermione,” he said gently, “you were meant to believe I was dead. Everyone was. What’s more, any resuscitation attempts could have interfered with the magic that kept me alive.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered again, and he produced a handkerchief to wipe her eyes and nose, which were streaming freely. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I know the heart is simply a muscle that pumps blood to the body, but my other heart feels wrong somehow. Like it’s as hollow as the place my heart is supposed to be. It’s like a hole that everything pours into, but is never filled. It’s like-.” She stopped as her mind provided the answer it had been searching for.
Severus held the handkerchief to her nose. “Blow first. Epiphany second,” he ordered.
She complied, noisily. “Like a Horcrux,” she said, her nose stuffy but no longer running. “The dreams were exactly like the awful things that Slytherin’s locket whispered into our minds during sleepless nights. Slytherin’s locket, which we stole from Dolores Umbridge in the room where my leg was found. The locations aren’t just sites of mortal terror; they have something to do with the Horcruxes. The Lestrange’s vault was where we found Hufflepuff’s Cup.”
“The Shrieking Shack likely contained your most vivid memory of Nagini,” added Severus, writing on the board as fast as he could. “And Malfoy Manor?”
“Riddle’s diary,” said Hermione decisively. “Lucius had it for safe-keeping all those years. And we found the Ravenclaw diadem in the Room of Requirement. But if this is the case, then we’re still missing two Horcruxes.”
“The ring,” said Severus.
Hermione swallowed hard. “I don't know where Harry put it,” she said at last. “But it would have to be somewhere I've been in order to fit the pattern.”
“We destroyed the soul component in Dumbeldore’s office,” said Severus. “I’ll return to Hogwarts at-”
“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed. “The last Horcrux was Harry! And he was sick; he had an awful headache. Circe, what if part of me materialised inside his head?”
“Then I daresay Potter has never been smarter, even if it’s only your gall bladder,” said Severus smirking.
Hermione scowled at him. “It’s not funny,” she said. “All sorts of harmful microbes could be on it that could make Harry deathly ill. And we have to get whatever it is out of him intact, otherwise my body might never join up again.”
Severus sobered, at least in expression. “I’ll have Healer Jones send for him.”
Hermione pretended not to hear his sniggering.
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The next half-hour was an excruciating wait, which was finally broken by Harry being wheeled into Hermione’s room on a trolley and slid into a bed next to hers. His skin had a greyish tinge to it, and he was covered in a thin film of perspiration.
“All right, Harry?” she asked.
“Head hurts,” he said, not bothering to open his eyes.
“They told you what’s wrong?”
“Yeah,” he said, opening his eyes and giving her a weak smile. “Trust you to do Voldemort one better.”
This made her laugh weakly. “When will they operate? Or extract? I don’t know what Healers call it,” she asked the porter.
“Healer Jones is preparing now,” she said, pulling the sheet up over Harry’s chest and depositing his wand, wallet, and other possessions on the nightstand between their beds. “He’ll be in soon.”
When the porter had left, Hermione looked tearfully at her friend. “Harry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“Hush, ‘mione, s’okay,” he said. “Where’s Ron an’ Snape?”
“Ron’s still looking for missing bits in Godric’s Hollow and the Forest of Dean,” she said. “If Severus finds what he’s looking for at Hogwarts, we’ll send a Patronus for him.”
“Good,” said Harry, eyes falling shut once more.
Hermione bit her lip. “Were they able to determine what part of me is in there?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Feels like it’s your foot banging me in the skull.”
If her heart was beating inside his head, he wasn’t far off. “I’m sorry,” she said again, her voice wobbly.
“Shush. I know.” Harry let out a little sigh. His breathing slowed, indicating that he was unconscious, which, Hermione realised, was a far better state for him to be in.
Hermione knew if she had been able to walk, she would have been pacing. Where was Severus? What was taking so long? Unless her body part wasn’t in the Headmistress’s office... The thought chilled her. But it couldn’t really be anywhere else, could it? The ring had come from the Gaunt’s shack, and she’d never been there. Then again, the ring had been inside the Snitch Dumbledore had left for Harry, so technically, it had been with them during the whole year. But it hadn’t been a Horcrux, then. And how had her body known to send a part of itself to every place where a Horcrux had met its end before she even knew what a Horcrux was? Perhaps she had known at some point and simply forgotten. But these questions were unanswerable at present, and therefore not worth worrying about.
She had to eliminate some possibilities, or else she would go mad.
Realistically, if her heart was inside Harry’s head, he would be dead. There would simply have been too much pressure on his brain. Harry hadn’t been a deliberate Horcrux, so perhaps Severus was on to something when he suggested that it was her gall bladder inside his head. Perhaps it was her tonsils or a wisdom tooth. Regardless, it would be out of Harry’s head within the hour.
Hermione closed her eyes and imagined the ring with its stone whole. Voldemort had believed fervently in the Elder Wand-it really was one of life’s great ironies that he'd overlooked the Hallow whose legendary power overlapped with his goal of living forever. She shuddered to think about what he might have done if he’d known the ring in which he'd concealed his poisonous soul possessed the power to bring back the dead.
In her mind’s eye, Hermione saw Dumbledore in his office, the ring adorning his black, shrivelled hand. There was Fawkes on his perch, and the table of Dumbledore’s inventions. There were the portraits, the Sorting Hat, even the dish of sherbet lemons. And then she knew. There was only one place in that office that could conceal a living, beating heart. She had to tell Severus. But how? Harry was unconscious, and there was nobody else she trusted in the immediate vicinity who could get the message to him.
She looked around the room and spied Harry’s wand lying on the nightstand. Hermione’s detached arms were still slow to respond to her commands, but she was able to drag her arm across her body by walking her fingers spiderlike toward the edge of the bed. Unfortunately, the edge was still several inches away from the nightstand where the wand lay. She would have to span the breach, somehow.
The fingers of her left hand flexed normally, despite being burned and heavily bandaged. She inched the arm up over her chest and up to the edge of the bed. She then took a deep breath and flung the arm into the space between the bed and nightstand. Unfortunately, the arm was still an inch or two short of the nightstand, but it protruded from the bed far enough that Hermione was able to walk her other hand across and wrap her fingers around the wand.
Hermione was breathing hard with the mental and physical effort of commanding her limbs remotely, and that was only the beginning. Her fingers, the only reliable means of moving her arm, were currently wrapped around Harry’s wand and could not both hold it and move. Thus, she would have to cast the spell she had in mind with her detached arm lying on the nightstand. Harry’s wand buzzed in her hand, half in protest, it seemed, and half in eagerness to heal its ill master.
“Here goes nothing,” she said to herself. She closed her eyes and let her mind wander backwards in time to a time when she felt happy. She was both surprised and unsurprised that the most recent time she had laughed until her sides ached had been two days ago. Severus had pointed out the unfortunate acronym of the Proceedings of the Natural Institutes of Spellbindery. She pictured the mischievous curl of his lip and the light dancing in his dark eyes and flexed her wrist. “Expecto Patronum.”
To her relief and delight, her silvery otter shot out of her wand and danced around her bed, waiting for instructions.
“Find Severus,” she told it. “He’s at Hogwarts. Tell him to bring the Sorting Hat here and please hurry. Harry’s in a bad way.”
Her otter twirled in comprehension and galloped off, its thick tail held high.
At this juncture, Healer Jones burst into the suite, smelling of antiseptic potion, and followed by trainees in cloth masks.
“Extraction of a foreign object from the head is something Healers in the Spell Damage ward do on a regular basis,” he said, addressing the other Healers. “However, the procedure is slightly trickier because there’s no entry wound. Thus, we must rely on our wands with the Scanning Spell to guide us! Fortunately for the patient, we have a sixty-five percent survival rate for such procedures. You can find further information in Aloysius Butcher’s treatise on trepanation. If you will all gather around, I will begin the procedure. For the patient’s safety, please remain silent while-”
Healer Jones was cut off by a deafening CRACK, and he jumped. “What in blazes? It’s illegal to Apparate into-”
Severus rushed into the room holding the ancient, dingy Hat. Healer Jones stared at it bewilderedly. “Is that-?”
“Yes,” said Severus shortly. “I can’t begin to fathom why-”
“Put it on my head,” ordered Hermione. “Please.”
Severus looked as if he wanted to comment on the absurdity of the proceedings, but he did as she requested.
Hermione was convinced that the Hat had some sort of Expansion Charm on it that made it perpetually several sizes too large for the head upon which it sat because the Hat fell down over her eyes the same way it had when she was eleven.
“Heavens to Hatbands!” exclaimed the familiar voice in her ear. “I’ve seen bodies without heads, but rarely a head without a body.”
“I believe you have something that belongs to me,” thought Hermione. “I need it now.”
“Yes and no,” said the Hat in a cagey sort of voice. “I’m not entirely certain it belongs to you.”
“Don’t be silly,” she thought crossly. “Who else could it belong to?”
“That is the question, now, isn’t it?” asked the Hat.
“For pity’s sake, there isn’t time for riddles!” Hermione exclaimed, not caring if the others could hear her. “It’s a matter of life and death. Harry could die because of me! You’re the only one who can help us.”
“By Milliner, you're right!” exclaimed the Hat.
In response, a heavy metal object fell down on Hermione’s head. “OW!”
Severus leapt to her aid and pulled the Hat from her head. He hesitated a moment, then reached down to retrieve the shining sword that the Hat had dropped on her head.
“What in Merlin’s name-?” began Healer Jones.
Severus was looking at the sword as if it might bite him, and he raised his eyes to Hermione’s, only to find her looking at Healer Jones.
“Healer Jones, can you use a Goblin-made sword?”
The Healer’s eyes widened, and he took the sword from Severus. “It’s an overlarge blade,” he said, considering, “but its properties could prove invaluable.” He turned to his assistants.
“Who can tell me why a Goblin-made blade is useful in internal procedures?”
“Because wounds made with it don’t bleed,” said Hermione impatiently.
“At least not in humans,” added one of the assistants. “Supposedly to protect Goblins from liability, but probably more to do with keeping their human prisoners alive as long as possible.”
“Correct,” he said to the trainee, ignoring Hermione. One of the attendants sprayed another potion on the blade of the sword, which made it gleam brightly. “Right so, we’d best get on with it,” said Healer Jones.
The assistants gathered around Harry’s bedside, and Healer Jones bent over Harry and raised the sword. Hermione couldn’t look. She heard an awful crunching, sawing sound and feared her stomach would rebel. Hermione closed her eyes, trying not to listen to the whispered spells and what they were doing to her friend. Her meditation was interrupted by a triumphant exclamation from Healer Jones.
“Got it!” he cried. There was a metallic thunk as a small, fleshy object was tossed into a pan. “You lot close up, and note the clean edges of the cut-with proper application of Collagus Concoction, there won’t even be a scar. Ms Granger?”
“Yes?” asked Hermione, her eyes still closed.
“Don’t you want to see?”
“Not particularly,” she said. “What is it?”
“Your appendix,” he said. “Neatest removal I ever saw. I’ll keep it in suspension until your heart is found, just in case it’s needed to reconnect your body, but if it’s not, you might consider getting rid of it.” He wiped the blade of the sword on a clean towel and laid it on the nightstand. “Now, if you will all follow me across the hall, we can discuss the procedure.”
They left, leaving Harry unconscious, his scar redder than usual but in all other ways seemingly untouched.
“For all that Jones is an insensitive git who talks too much, he’s an adequate surgeon,” commented Severus.
Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “Thank Merlin. Did they have to-you know-with his brain?”
“The appendix practically popped out of his head as soon as they were through the skull,” said Severus. “No digging was necessary. Now, if your squeamishness has been catered to sufficiently, I need to get back to Hogwarts.”
Hermione looked at him, taking in his impatient, put-upon expression, and a warm feeling ran through her as understanding dawned on her. “That won’t be necessary, Severus,” she said, hardly daring to believe her own solution to the Hat’s riddle. “I believe my heart has already been returned.”
He looked at her oddly. “You believe?”
“I’m fairly certain,” she amended. “Would you be so kind as to put on the Hat?”
He looked as if he wished to protest, but took the battered leather Hat and placed it on his head. It fell down over his eyes. He stood there for several long minutes, and Hermione felt her distant heart beating faster for reasons she daren’t think about very much for fear of jinxing the result.
At last, Severus lifted the Hat from his head and reached his arm into it. Suddenly, his expression became one of surprise, which quickly fell into concern.
“You might wish to close your eyes,” he said. “It’s doesn’t look like a paper valentine.”
“I wouldn’t want you to give me a paper valentine,” she said, fixing her eyes calmly on him. “Too flimsy and traditional.”
“What I have in my hand is indeed more substantial,” he said, “but I fear the sight of it in my hand might be troubling to you.”
“Severus, has it occurred to you that there is a reason the Hat wouldn’t relinquish my heart to me, but it did to you?”
“You’d have fainted,” he said, smirking.
She scowled at him. “Would you stop being so literal?” she asked crossly.
“One of us has to be,” he retorted. “Symbolism and psychological undertones are all very well and good when sorting out the logic behind uncontrolled bursts of magic caused by shattering wands, but the rest of the time, seeing exactly what is in front of one is far preferable.”
“Oh?” asked Hermione. “And what precisely do you see in front of you?”
“My separated partner,” he said, his mouth quirking into a half-smile.
“You are impossible,” she said, trying to ignore the giggle that was threatening to bubble up.
“Now, my heart, if you please.”
Severus withdrew the beating object from the Hat, cradling it gently in his palm.
Hermione reflected that it really couldn’t have had a better caretaker, just before passing out.
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All in all, Hermione was beginning to tire of drifting into consciousness in St. Mungo’s, especially when she sensed that she was surrounded by people who were whispering excitedly.
She opened her eyes to find that her supposition had been correct. Healer Jones, all the trainees, Ron, Severus, and Harry were all there, though the latter three looked none too pleased by the presence of the first.
“She’s awake,” said Severus softly, though there was a definite edge to his voice. “I trust you will leave us in peace, now.” This was a statement rather than a request.
“I must judge how the Reunification took,” said the Healer, clearly disliking being told where to go in his own ward.
Hermione tentatively drew her arm up and pulled it over the top of the sheet. It responded immediately, and she let out a sigh of relief. At Healer Jones’s prompting, she tested the other parts of her body and was finally allowed to sit up on the bed and finally to stand up. All of her parts stayed where they were supposed to. When Healer Jones was satisfied, he finally led his entourage from Hermione’s room, much to her relief.
“All right, Harry?” she asked her friend, who was sitting on the bed that he had of late occupied.
“Fine,” he said, giving her a grin. “Although I think Ginny’s going to be a bit mad.”
Hermione blushed. “I’ll apologise to her personally when I’m released.”
“Not at you,” said Harry, grinning. “At Healer Jones.” He parted his fringe in the centre. To Hermione’s shock, the lightning bolt scar that had graced his forehead as long as she had known him was no longer there.
“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed. “The Healers cut through it to get, you know, out of your head and healed it a bit too well?”
“We reckon that the bit of old Voldie’s soul that kept it from healing is long gone,” said Ron. “All right,” he amended at Severus’s sharp look, “Snape reckoned. But it makes sense, right?”
“So why is Ginny going to be mad?”
“Are you kidding? Now that I don’t have to worry about being recognised by all and sundry if my forehead’s uncovered, I’m getting a haircut! Gin says she likes it scruffy, but I can’t help wanting to look a bit more distinguished like. Now that I’m older, I mean.”
“Potter,” said Severus. “Your haircut has nothing to do with how distinguished you are.”
“Thanks, Snape,” said Harry, either unaware of Severus’s sarcasm or choosing to ignore it. “Glad to see you’re all in one piece, Hermione, but I’ve got to get home and rest up. I’ve got two days’ work to catch up on tomorrow.”
“Thanks for everything, Harry,” said Hermione, her eyes threatening to spill over tears. “And I am-”
“Sooooo sorry,” chorused the boys.
Hermione glared at them. “You realise that I’m going to have a new wand soon that’ll be even better at hexing than my old wand.”
“We plan to be far away by the time that happens,” said Ron gaily. “See you later, Hermione.”
“I’ll go and see about your release,” said Severus, following the boys out.
“Severus, wait,” Hermione called. “I can’t Apparate to Diagon Alley without a wand,” she said. “If I could impose on your kindness just one more time, I’d be most grateful. I’d even buy you lunch at the chippy afterwards.”
He looked at her, considering. “You really ought to get some rest.”
Hermione grinned. Severus knew as well as she did that she could always use the Floo network to get to Ollivander’s, but he hadn’t pointed it out. Emboldened, she met his eye. “We could always do both together.”
“I don’t need a new wand,” he scoffed, eyes warm.
“But you can’t deny that you need time to recover from this. We’re neither of us going to be any use at work until we’re back to normal.”
“What if I’m not interested in going back to normal?”
Hermione’s heart swelled, and this time, she could fully appreciate the fact. She rose to her feet and walked to him, stopping mere inches from where he stood. “Then it sounds as if we’re in perfect agreement.”
Wand in hand, Severus closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her waist, spinning as he did so. Fortunately, Hermione’s stomach was jumping around far too much to be disturbed by something as minor as side-along Apparition, and they landed on the street in front of Ollivander’s, still embracing.
He staggered when they landed, but she stood her ground, allowing her legs to absorb his momentum and holding him steadily. His eyes met hers, and she was certain he would have kissed her had they not been standing in the middle of a crowded shopping district.
Ten minutes later, Hermione was the proud owner of a new wand, which shot out silver swirls of light when her fingers closed around it-an effect that Mr. Ollivander Jr. assured her would wear off after a few days when the wand had got used to her.
Twenty minutes later, Hermione was enjoying the cod fillet she’d been wanting for days. She pretended not to see Severus steal her chips.
Thirty minutes later, Hermione was amused to note that Severus tasted slightly of malt vinegar.
Forty minutes later, she had no thought in her head, save to remove her clothes as quickly as possible and thank the powers that be that she'd bothered to wear the fancy stockings.
Fifty years later, Severus still grumbled his disapproval at the overly sentimental ending of the novella she’d written about the circumstances surrounding their non-existent courtship. Or at least, that's what Hermione extrapolated as she published it, to her friends' delight and Severus's grudging approval.
Time will probably prove her supposition to be correct. After all, Hermione is a very good theoretician.
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The End
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A/N: Enormous thanks to Mr. 42 and melusin-79 for their superb beta-reading and Brit-picking skills! I would be grammatically incorrect, improperly punctuated, canon-shafted, and overly Dickensian without you! All readers owe their lack of confusion to you!
Title: I Fall to Pieces
Fandom: Harry Potter
Ship: SS/HG
Word Count: ~10,000
Warnings: EWE, some slight medical stuff
Disclaimer: © 2010 Mundungus42. All rights reserved. This work may not be archived, reproduced, or distributed in any format without prior written permission from the author. This is an amateur, non-profit work and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by JKR or any other lawful holder. Permission may be obtained by e-mailing the author at mundungus42 at yahoo dot com
Summary: For lifeasanamazon, who prompted me thus: I'm a sucker for a little hurt/comfort. A broken wand has unforeseen repercussions.
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Hermione knew what happened when a wizard or witch continued to use a damaged wand. However, her own wand had never given her a moment’s trouble since the moment she picked it up in Ollivander’s all those years ago. So when a boy on a skateboard crashed into her while she went shopping for a new mobile phone in Muggle London, she didn’t even think to ensure that the contents of her bag had not been damaged in the accident. Who could blame her for being more concerned about her wrist, which she was having trouble moving, than her reliable old wand, whose vine wood shone as brightly as it had on the day she’d bought it?
Fortunately, her new mobile had a sensitive touch-screen keyboard, so her wrist merely ached as she texted her bench mate, explaining that she was going to St. Mungo's and asking him to finish the experiment she'd started that morning. He'd grumble, but it would get done. Satisfied that all would be well at work for the rest of the day, she descended into Oxford Circus tube station and stepped into the hidden Apparation point near the turnstiles. Ever since that long-ago break-in at Gringott's, Hermione detested going underground, but it was the quickest way to St. Mungo's. She pulled out her wand and performed the same action that she had performed several times daily for the past fifteen years.
The last thing she remembered was knowing instinctively that something was very, very wrong.
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She was drifting slowly towards consciousness on a bed of cloud. Her sluggish brain knew that waking was inevitable, but she resisted all the same by banishing coherent thought to the periphery of her mind as long as possible. She tried to roll over onto her side and burrow deeply into the bedclothes, only to find that her body was not responding to her brain’s orders.
Her eyes flew open, and she realised that she was not in her own bed, but lying in a white room with institutional furnishings. She gasped as her last memories flashed through her mind. The accident. Her text to Severus. Apparating to St. Mungo’s. And then nothing. Dear Dido, had she Splinched herself? She looked down at her body, which was concealed beneath a sheet. There was a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach when she realised the sheet wasn’t rising and falling with her breath.
She glanced to the side of the bed at the bell pull that could be used to summon the Healers and growled in frustration. She couldn’t reach it, not with her body in this strange paralysis. So she did the next best thing. She yelled.
“OI!”
There was a scuffle out in the hallway followed by a loud crash, exactly as if someone who had been sitting in a chair outside the room had fallen off it. Sure enough, Ron Weasley crawled sheepishly into view, and his face broke into an enormous grin.
“Hermione!” he exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. “Thank Merlin! They didn’t know when you were going to wake up!”
“Did I get Splinched?” asked Hermione. “I can’t move anything. Is that a side effect of whatever spell they used to put me back together?”
Ron’s face fell. “You- well, I’d better get a Healer to explain.”
“Ronald Weasley!” she exclaimed. “Tell me what’s wrong with me this instant!”
He looked extremely unhappy. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Just tell me.”
“It’s easier to show you, really,” he said. “Are you sure you-”
“Just do it,” she ordered, forcefully tamping down the panic she was feeling.
Ron swallowed hard and pulled back the sheet to reveal what was underneath.
Hermione lowered her chin as well as she could to see the state she was in and was shocked to find nothing. She had no body. As far as she could see, her body ended below the chin. She gasped, feeling the ghost of her chest rise, but seeing nothing but bedclothes below.
“The Healers Charmed the sheet to make it look like you’re still here,” Ron explained. “It’s, well, a bit disconcerting to see you like this.”
Hermione couldn’t agree more. “Where exactly has the rest of me gone?” she asked faintly.
“They’re not sure,” said Ron, running his fingers through his hair.
Hermione frowned. “All right, then why haven’t I bled to death or been dosed with a thousand potions to keep me alive?”
“You’re completely stable, which is something else they’re not quite sure about, either,” said Ron. “The Healer said I should find him as soon as you regained consciousness.”
“How long have I been out?”
“A couple of hours,” answered Ron. “Harry and I came as soon as we heard. He’s cross-examining an expert in Splinching to see if we can figure out where the rest of you went.”
“That’s not likely to do much good, now is it, Weasley?” came a deep voice from the doorway.
“She hasn’t been Splinched.”
Hermione looked up in surprise to see her bench partner standing in the door. How on earth had he found out so quickly?
“She Apparated and most of her never arrived at the right place,” argued Ron. “If that’s not Splinching, I don’t know what is.”
“That you don’t know the meaning of Splinching is patently obvious,” said Severus. “As Hermione is neither bleeding nor are her missing parts at the Apparation point she used, she has not been Splinched.”
“How did you know that?” asked Hermione in surprise. “The Apparation point, I mean. It’s not as though it could have been traced.”
“The magical signature couldn’t,” he replied smugly, “but your mobile signal could.”
“Hang on,” said Ron, still trying to suss out what Severus had said. “Old Twycross said that Splinching is the separation of body parts. She’s separated, yeah?”
“He also said that Splinching is a result of being insufficiently determined,” argued Hermione.
“I Apparate every day. I know exactly how much determination is necessary. My wrist was sore, but it wasn’t enough of a distraction to make me Splinch. I was able to send the text to Severus, after all.”
“The incident had nothing to do with your Apparation skills,” said Severus. “It had everything to do with this.”
He held out a handful of splinters and tiny pieces of sparkling debris.
Hermione stared at the pile of detritus uncomprehendingly for a moment. “Circe,” she said softly. “My wand.”
“Hang on,” said Ron. “Where did you find that?”
“It was scattered about the Apparation point,” said Severus.
“Did you tell the Healers?” demanded Ron, whose crimson earlobes were indicating that he was just on the near side of losing his temper.
“Of course I did,” said Severus in the quelling voice that he usually reserved for putting the fear of Merlin into first years. “Now why don’t you make yourself useful and fetch Healer Jones? He’ll want to speak to her.”
Ron looked slightly put out, but he nodded. “Right.”
Once Ron had disappeared down the hallway, Severus was at her side. Hermione hadn’t regretted her lack of hands so acutely until she realised that her usually reserved colleague would have been holding one of hers.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” said Hermione. “As odd as it sounds, I feel physically fine.”
“And the rest?” he asked, his gaze penetrating, even without the use of Occlumency.
“I’ve been better,” she admitted.
He smoothed her curls back from her forehead, a gesture that in another situation would have been uncomfortably intimate, but it soothed her, nonetheless. “If you were in any immediate danger, it would have manifested itself before now,” he said. It was oddly reassuring.
“True,” came a voice from the door. “But that doesn’t mean that time isn’t of the essence.” A man with kindly dark eyes wearing Healer’s robes bustled into her room. Behind him floated a pad of paper and a Quick-Quotes Quill. “I’m Healer Jones, head of the Spell Damage Ward. Please tell us what happened. And leave out no details. They could be important.”
She related her shopping trip and the accident, slightly irritated at having to explain in exacting detail what a skateboard was and why anybody would use such a thing. The Quick-Quotes Quill scratched away, and Healer Jones looked thoughtful. “What can you feel of your body, Hermione?”
She closed her eyes. “I can feel myself breathing, but only slightly. I’m lying on my back on a flat surface. My right arm feels cold, like the air surrounding it is cold. My left arm feels like it’s pressing upward into a rough, gravelly surface, so it must be lying the wrong way up. The air feels cool, but not cold. My left leg is lying on something flat, but not too hard, and my right leg is on something very soft-that’s about all.”
The Healer’s eyes were serious. “This complicates matters,” he said. “We’ve seen cases where the body ends up in two different places, but you seem to be scattered in four or five. Apparation with a damaged wand usually results in appearing in the wrong place or Splinching. That yours was a very powerful wand is without question, but not so powerful as to have done this without extenuating circumstances.”
“Such as?” asked Hermione.
Healer Jones looked at Severus. “Mister Snape suggested that perhaps the type of damage to your wand is to blame.”
“Well, obviously,” said Ron. “It exploded and blew her to kingdom come through the Apparation spell.”
“In simple terms, yes, that’s what happened,” said Healer Jones, patiently. “But I think he meant to explain how so much energy was released, which is something of a mystery.”
Hermione looked into her colleague’s dark eyes and considered. “I didn’t notice anything wrong with the wand,” she murmured. “So it must have sustained a hairline crack in the collision. Oh,” she said, eyes widening. “Oh, my.”
Ron looked confused. “Come again?”
“Remember when I showed you how Muggle fireworks work? What happens when you put a flame to a pile of gunpowder?”
“It sort of fizzles,” said Ron, grinning. “George was so disappointed.”
“So imagine a Unicorn hair as gunpowder-it doesn’t do much by itself. But when you pack gunpowder tightly into a tube that’s open on one end, it shoots off in the opposite direction. The vascular system of the wood surrounding the magical core channels the magical energy away from your body and out the end of your wand, like a bottle rocket, and that’s how you cast spells. But you remember what happens if there’s no clear way to channel the gunpowder's explosion or more than one opening?”
“Yeah,” said Ron soberly. “There’s not enough thrust to send the rocket in the direction it’s supposed to go, so it just explodes.”
Healer Jones nodded. “Well, that makes sense, theoretically.”
“I am a theoretician,” said Hermione matter-of-factly. “Though I hope you’ll excuse me if I don’t volunteer to perform any additional proofs of that particular theory.”
Severus snorted.
“Can you move your limbs at all?” asked Healer Jones.
“I tried earlier,” said Hermione. “It didn’t work.”
“What if you focus on a particular one?” persisted the Healer. “If your limbs arrived in places unknown, attracting attention to them with noise or motion might lead to their recovery.”
“All right,” Hermione said and closed her eyes. She focused on her left arm, largely because it was the least comfortable of her limbs. Whatever it was lying on was lumpy and uneven, and to move it, even to rest its weight on a different part of the arm, would be a relief. She knew in her mind that without the tendons of the shoulder, large movements would be well-nigh impossible. But she might be able to do something with her fingers and wrist. Slowly, she flexed her index finger and felt the suggestion of her finger move.
Her eyes flew open, and her hand flopped back to the lumpy surface.
“I did it,” she said. “I wiggled my finger.”
“Excellent!” said the Healer. “Now, try to bend your wrist. You don’t need to lift the hand, just use the wrist to drag the hand across the ground.”
Hermione closed her eyes, visualised the action and used her fingers to slide her arm to the side. As her far-off limb obeyed, she was suddenly aware of her fingers brushing against something hard and smooth.
“Wait,” she said. “There’s something there.” She reached with her other fingers and slid the tips against the mystery object. “It feels like metal,” she said. “It’s cool to the-wait, no it’s heating up. Ow!” Her fingers reflexively withdrew, but suddenly the metal object was lying against her hand.
“What was that?” asked Ron.
“It’s burning!” she exclaimed, trying to pull her powerless arm away from the hot metal, but it was as if the object was attacking her. Soon her wrist was being burned, then her forearm. It was like something viscous and molten was being spread across her skin. She was trying not to cry out, but tears were welling in her eyes.
“Hermione!” exclaimed Ron, who looked near to tears himself.
“Tell me what you feel,” said Healer Jones, leaning toward her and holding her gaze.
“It’s all over,” she choked out, “the burning. It feels like my whole arm is being dipped in boiling oil. Please, make it stop? I can’t-”
“For Merlin’s sake, man!” exploded Severus, whose voice sounded oddly far away.
“Stay with us, Hermione,” repeated Healer Jones. “What does it feel like?”
“She’s said what it feels like!” howled Ron, which brought her back to herself.
“It’s like the cup,” she said, a moment of clarity breaking through the growing agony. It was the last conscious thought she had before there was a flash of red light and blessed darkness descended.
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Hermione awoke once more to the sound of raised voices in the hallway. She was relieved to realise that her arm no longer felt as if it would be burned to a cinder, but she soon discovered that the conversation outside her door was far more interesting.
“For the last time, it was an ACCIDENT!” bellowed a familiar voice. Harry. Hermione smiled in spite of herself.
“You expect us to believe,” returned a harsh croak of a voice, “that the girl, a second time, just happened to appear in the same vault-”
“I don’t care what you believe,” said Harry coldly. “You have no case. Speak to my superior if you wish. There’s nothing here to suggest anything criminal-”
“Other than that it’s the girl’s arm,” growled the voice, which sounded distinctly Goblin-ish.
“We are running an inventory of all our other vaults to ensure that no other parts of her are lingering in any of them, waiting to do her bidding.”
“You do that,” said Harry. “And if you breathe one word of this to the papers-”
“Mister Potter,” said the voice scornfully. “This breach of security could cause a run on our institution if this were to be made public. But if you want to shield your friend from retribution, then I will have your wand oath that you will coerce her to reveal how she broke through our security measures again-” he paused, and Hermione suspected he was smirking nastily, “- singled-handedly.”
“You have it,” said Harry seriously.
“Good day, Mister Potter.”
“Good day, Master Goldsmiter.”
Hermione was impressed in spite of herself. The head of Gringotts himself had taken an interest. And that also explained the debilitating pain-a phantom shiver ran through her as she thought of that awful day, all those years ago, when they had liberated Helga Hufflepuff’s cup from the Lestrange’s vault. Given the events of the rest of the day, the memory was vague, though study and long thought had made it less so. But why on earth had her arm appeared there? She was distracted from this quandary by the sudden realisation that if her arm had been found, it was likely that it had been reattached.
She looked down at the sheet that concealed her lack of limbs and concentrated very hard on flexing her fingers once again. They felt stiff and slightly sore, but they moved, albeit sluggishly, bandaged fingertips brushing the bed sheet. Hermione sighed in relief. Even if she never located the rest of her body, at least she could still use a wand.
“All right?” asked Harry, entering her room. He looked haggard.
“All right,” she said, giving him a smile. “Thanks for dealing with the goblins.”
“S’alright,” he said, running his fingers through his hair and sitting down with a sigh. “So how do you reckon your arm turned up in the Lestrange’s vault?”
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
“What a surprise,” said Ron from the doorway. He was carrying a tray with several cups of tea on it. Hermione was pleased to see that one of them had a straw sticking out of it, presumably for her use.
Severus, who entered quietly behind Ron, arranged Hermione’s tea on the bedside table and gently put the straw in her mouth while Harry conjured chairs for them around her.
Hermione took a sip of the hot tea, smooth with milk, and sighed. She had no idea where the tea was going, but it soothed her mouth and throat, which were rough from screaming.
“A few months ago, I started having dreams about the war. Nightmares, really. I went to talk to a Healer about getting a prescription for Dreamless Sleep, but he’s something of an holistic Healer and thought that the dreams were there for a reason. He suggested that I write them down in a journal and see if it helps.”
Severus looked supremely sceptical. “Does it?”
“Well, I haven’t had a nightmare since I started writing,” she said. “But it made me realise how little the emotional scars have healed. I’m confident it will be better when I get all my recollections down on paper.”
“Yeah, I can imagine how painful it must be for you now, knowing that you fancied Ron,” said Harry.
“Oi!” exclaimed Ron, cuffing Harry on the bicep.
“So you believe that the emotional turmoil related to your revisiting the events of the past have manifested themselves physically,” said Severus. He glared at Harry and Ron, who were still trading friendly punches.
“I can’t think of any other reason for my arm to have appeared there of all places, other than that it’s the site of one of our nearer brushes with death.”
“So should we check the others?” asked Harry.
“I don’t think this single instance is sufficient to extrapolate from with any degree of accuracy,” argued Severus.
“Severus is right,” said Hermione. “As much as I’d like to assign the location some sort of meaning, it’s also possible that my body's ended up in a completely random set of locations that I’ve physically visited.”
“So what should we do, just wait?” asked Ron. “What for? It’s not like her leg’s just going to walk through the door, now-”
He broke off as Healer Jones appeared in the doorway, floating Hermione’s left leg a few inches above the ground with his wand.
“Good news!” he announced. “This was just delivered to the Welcome Witch by Aberforth Dumbledore.”
“Aberforth had my leg?” asked Hermione, faintly.
“Best check it for goat bites,” said Ron.
“It was in the Shrieking Shack,” said Healer Jones. “Aberforth volunteers as a docent there twice a week. He found it lying near where Mister Snape fell. Begging your pardon.”
Severus waved his hand impatiently, and the Healer lifted Hermione’s sheet and laid the leg where it would normally be. It looked rather despondent lying by itself on the stark white linen, clad in a single trouser leg and cheery yellow flat.
“I’m afraid I can’t re-attach it until there’s something to attach it to. Besides, we only had partial luck re-attaching your arm. It probably won’t take fully until all the other parts are back together. Do you have any theories on where the other parts might be?”
“Nothing definite to go on.”
“There is one thing,” said Healer Jones, holding out a form. “St. Mungo’s could place an advertisement in the Prophet notifying them of the missing parts and asking them to be returned to the hospital. It would be completely anonymous, of course.”
“Thank you,” said Severus swiftly, “that won’t be necessary.”
Hermione looked at him curiously for a moment, but nodded. “He’s right,” she said. “If my suspicion is correct, a public search isn’t likely to turn up much, and I’d rather alert as few people to my predicament as possible, even if they don’t know it’s me.”
Healer Jones put the form back on his clipboard. “Very well,” he said. “If you’re sure. But there’s really nothing more I can do for you until more pieces of your body show up.”
“I understand. Thank you, Healer Jones.” When he had left, Hermione turned to Severus. “What was that about?”
“If a person finds a body part that’s obviously still alive, most would turn it in to St. Mungo’s or the Ministry. If someone reads an ad asking it to be returned, the first thing on that person’s mind will be remuneration.”
“You reckon?” asked Ron, surprised. “Well, maybe. What do you think, Harry?”
“Wha?” asked Harry, whose had been resting his head in his hands. His palms had left red marks on either side of his face.
“Harry, are you all right?” asked Hermione. “You look awful.”
“It’s nothing. I’ve just got an enormous headache. Dealing with Goblins will do that to you.”
“Potter, you’re dead on your feet,” said Severus. “You’ve done enough. Go home to your family and get some rest.”
It was a sign of how horrid Harry was feeling that he didn’t argue. “You’ll be all right?” he asked Hermione.
“I will,” she assured him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. You coming, Ron?”
“What? Oh!” he exclaimed. “I completely forgot! Ginny's invited me to supper tonight! But I don’t have to go,” he said hurriedly. “If you’d rather I stayed.”
“It’s all right, Ron. I don’t think there’s much we can do tonight, anyway. Enjoy your supper.”
He looked meaningfully at Severus. “You’ll be all right with him?”
“I’m all right with him eight hours a day, five days a week,” she said. “More if we’re working on a grant.”
“Go away, Weasley,” said Severus, unhelpfully.
Ron shot him a scowl on his way out.
“You really shouldn’t bait them like that,” admonished Hermione. “All it does is ensure that they cluck over me like concerned hens.”
“I shall try to refrain from ruffling their feathers,” conceded Severus, taking her hand, “at least until this is over.”
Because the arm wasn’t completely stuck on, Hermione couldn’t squeeze his hand with much reassurance, but he seemed to know it for what it was. He sat by her bedside for long minutes in companionable silence, rubbing warm circles with his thumb on an unbandaged part of her hand. It felt wonderful, and the different parts of her body, wherever they were, echoed back her pleasure.
She sighed. “You don’t have to stay with me, you know,” she said. “Merlin knows you get enough of my company at work.”
“I’ve always enjoyed a challenge,” he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ll get us some food. The canteen doesn’t have much, but there’s a chippy on the corner, if that’s amenable to you.”
Somewhere far away, Hermione’s stomach rumbled. “Thank you, I haven’t had anything since breakfast. Cod fillet and chips if they’ve got them.”
“Try to rest,” he said, heading for the door.
Hermione closed her eyes, but a curious sensation in her absent right leg caused them to fly open again. “Severus!” she whispered.
He froze. “What is it?”
“Someone is rubbing my leg. The one that’s not here.”
“This is the one that was lying on something soft, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“And someone is rubbing it?”
“Well, caressing it,” she said, flushing. “And, erm, massaging my thigh.”
Severus’s expression was thunderous. “What kind of person would do such a thing?” Suddenly, his scowl deepened. “What shoes are you wearing?”
“The yellow flats with snakeskin trim,” she said. Her eyes widened. “You don’t think-”
Severus swore suddenly. “It makes sense,” he said. “We’ve had Gringotts, where you experienced mortal terror: the Shrieking Shack, where you witnessed attempted murder, and now the place where you were tortured.”
“He’s taking off my shoe, now,” said Hermione faintly, her face paling.
“I’ll take care of it,” said Severus. “And Hermione? Do try not to enjoy yourself too much. You’ll only feel dirty in the morning.”
This startled a laugh out of her. “If he tries anything disgusting, I will do my best to kick him somewhere sensitive.”
“And if you’re unable to, my inside knowledge and revenge plotting skills are at your disposal for use at a later date.” Hermione couldn’t suppress a grin at the predatory smirk she saw reflected in the window as he turned to walk down the corridor.
Because she was waiting for it, Hermione knew the moment Severus had recovered her leg. The lascivious touches had abruptly ceased, presumably when Severus arrived at the manor, and a few minutes later, there was a warm squeeze on her ankle. Hermione sighed in relief and went promptly to sleep.
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The next morning, Hermione awoke to a loud clatter of wood and metal. She opened her eyes to find Ron wheeling in a portable chalkboard.
“We borrowed it from the boardroom down the hall,” he said. “Oh, and they found your other arm. Snape’s filling out the paperwork on it, right now.”
“Where was it?”
“An old storeroom in the Ministry,” replied Ron.
“That’s odd,” said Hermione, who was slightly disappointed to see the pattern break down. It didn’t bode well for recovering her still-missing parts.
“Not if you consider that the storeroom in question was where we found Umbridge interrogating Muggle-borns,” said Ron.
Hermione shivered at the memory. That was another fairly awful time during which she’d been terrified out of her mind.
“So all we’re missing is your middle,” said Ron cheerfully. “Oh, and Harry says sorry he can’t be here. Says he’s still feeling rotten, so he’s taking the day off work.”
“You don’t think it had anything to do with the oath the Goblins extracted from him, do you?” asked Hermione, concerned.
“Doubtful,” said Severus, appearing in the doorway with her arm. “Wand oaths are more a matter of honour than binding magic like an Unbreakable Vow.”
He pulled back the sheet and placed her arm in its proper place. Now that it was so much closer to her, she could feel his warm fingers and wished she’d worn a short-sleeved blouse on her shopping trip.
“Right,” said Ron, raising a piece of chalk to the blackboard. “So, here are the parts we know.”
Left Arm -Lestrange’s Gringotts vault, near death by treasure
Left Leg - Shrieking Shack, near death by snake
Right Leg- Malfoy Manor, near death by insane cow
Right Arm- Ministry of Magic, near death by ugly cow
Torso - ???
“Right,” said Ron. “It seems pretty obvious what these locations have in common. So all we need to do is suss out all the other places where Hermione nearly died, or saw people die, that year before Harry killed You-Know-Who and look there.”
“There was Godric’s Hollow,” she said, shuddering.
“Right. ‘Death by fake old lady',” said Ron, writing it down.
“There was the air skirmish with the Polyjuiced Potters,” volunteered Snape, his expression daring anyone to comment.
“Right, ‘death by Death Eaters',” said Ron. “Make that ‘death by flying Death Eaters’ so we can tell the difference between that and the Battle of Hogwarts, which should be ‘death by attacking Death Eaters'.”
“How efficient,” said Severus, only half sneering.
“There were others,” said Hermione. “Better add ‘death by Erumpent horn,’ ‘death by dragon,’ and ‘death by Fiendfyre,’ to the list, too.”
“And of course, ‘death by starvation’ and ‘death by eating the wrong mushrooms',” added Ron. “I think that’s the lot for that year.”
Snape examined the list thoughtfully. “Despite the incidents of mortal peril you managed to get into on your own, I suspect that the preponderance of deaths and near deaths you witnessed occurred during the Battle of Hogwarts. Despite not having the advantage of a magical map, I flatter myself that I know the grounds as well, or better, than even the current Headmistress.”
“Right,” said Ron, his voice gruff. “I’ll take Godric’s Hollow and the Forest of Dean. I owe you and Harry trips there, anyway. See you, Hermione, Snape.”
“Thanks, Ron,” said Hermione. “I don’t know where I’d be without your help.”
“You don’t know where you are even with my help,” said Ron, grinning. “You’ll be all right.”
When Ron had gone, Severus turned to Hermione. “I apologise for not having read any of the tell-alls written about your adventures at Hogwarts, but if you could tell me approximately where these incidents occurred, I will search the places thoroughly. I don’t wish to bring up painful memories unnecessarily-”
“It’s all right,” interrupted Hermione. “Not being able to face painful memories is, I suspect, what got me into this predicament. The first may be difficult. Death by Fiendfyre occurred in the Room of Requirement. It could be dangerous-for all I know, the room is still burning.”
”Unlikely. Fiendfyre dies out once it has consumed everything in its path,” said Snape, matter-of-factly.
Hermione attempted to nod, but her head wouldn’t move. “Right. We fought on the front lawn, in front of the gates,” she said. “That’s where most of it happened. Ron and I went down to the Chamber of Secrets for the Basilisk fang we used to destroy the cup, but we weren’t in danger there.” She swallowed hard. “Then there was Voldemort in the Great Hall, but that wasn’t so much traumatic as it was anti-climactic. And if you’re already there, you might check the base of the Astronomy Tower where, you know...”
“Yes,” said Severus simply. “I had thought to check there as well. Also the tunnel leading to the Shrieking Shack and several locations in Hogsmeade.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I know this can't be much fun. If anybody has more traumatic memories of the place than I do, it would be you.”
“They’re only places, Hermione,” he said softly. “Coming to terms with what one has done or failed to do has less to do with visiting the places in person and everything to do with visiting them in one’s thoughts.”
“How did you do it?” she asked him seriously. “How did you get over it?”
“I will never be ‘over it',” he said, “but I am fortunate enough to have had a great deal of contentment since, and I look forward to having a great deal more.”
Hermione gave him a warm smile. “I worry that we’ve made an optimist of you, Severus.”
“Perish the thought,” he said, pressing his lips gently to her forehead. “I am merely a realist with prospects.”
Hermione acutely felt the absence of having a body she could control, wanting nothing more than to embrace the man she’d come to value as a colleague, appreciate as a man, and depend on in ways she could have never imagined. She looked at him and realised that she completely lacked the words to say what she was feeling. However, the warm glow in Severus’s eyes as he looked back at her from the doorway made her confident that he knew.
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When the auxiliary nurse came in to feed her breakfast, Hermione ate ravenously. Once her far-off belly was full, she found that her mind was working more quickly as well and had the auxiliary assist her in putting on her wireless headset and arranging her unburnt arm above the sheet with her mobile phone, so she could call the lab and ask one of the others there to put her ingredients in stasis, only to find that Severus had already done it.
She was about to turn on the Wireless Wizarding Network to catch up with news of the outside world when Severus burst into the room, floating her torso in front of him. She was vaguely disappointed that he was not holding her around the waist, but she supposed it was wiser. As titillating as the thought of Severus coming into contact with her breasts was, she would much prefer the contact to be both deliberate and mutually stimulating.
“I’ve called for Healer Jones,” he said abruptly, settling her torso back into place. “If we’re lucky, you’ll be whole before Weasley gets back.”
Hermione grinned up at him, her eyes wet. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Where was it?”
“The Room of Requirement, which is, I’m pleased to report, completely Fiendfyre-free and beginning to fill with student contraband once more.”
“This way!” came a voice from the hallway.
To Hermione’s dismay, Healer Jones was followed by a posse of similarly-dressed men and women.
“This is one of the more unusual cases I’ve seen recently,” said Healer Jones. “What appeared to be a clear-cut case of Splinching has turned into a hunt for missing body parts spanning from Diagon Alley to Hogwarts.”
The attending witches and wizards oohed appropriately, which turned into a flurry of whispers when they recognised her. Fortunately, they fell silent when Severus drew himself up to his full height.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
“Healers-in-training,” said Healer Jones. “I thought they would find the patient’s Reunification interesting, as it’s a highly unusual treatment.”
“It’s all right, Severus,” said Hermione, giving him a quelling look to forestall the invective that would inevitably be flying. “Please proceed, Healer Jones.”
Healer Jones pulled back the sheet to reveal Hermione’s split body, and the trainees gasped. Several of them began to ask questions, but Healer Jones raised his hand to forestall them. “Please hold all questions until after the procedure,” he said, raising his wand impressively. “Confero!”
A warm yellow glow emanated from the Healer’s wand, and Hermione sighed. The spell felt nice. However, when he was finished, Hermione saw that she was still in pieces.
“How long until the spell works?”
Healer Jones was frowning. “It should be instantaneous. Confero!”
Hermione felt the beginnings of fear settle in her stomach. “What’s wrong?”
The Healer turned to look at Severus. “Are you sure these are all hers?”
From the paleness of Severus’s cheeks, Hermione suspected the Healer would not be long for this world, but then it occurred to her. “Of course,” said Hermione softly. “I’m not all here, yet.”
“What?” asked Severus, his brow impressively furrowed.
“Healer Jones,” said Hermione, “you said earlier that you couldn’t reattach my arm because there were still too many pieces missing. What if I’m still missing pieces inside?”
The Healer looked ready to argue, if only for the sake of his dignity, but waved his wand over her. Diagnostic spells had never been Hermione’s forte. Indeed, the blurry picture that was supposed to be a wizard or witch’s insides looked more like a pinkish blur, but apparently it meant something to the trainees, who all gasped.
“Ah,” said Healer Jones. “That would appear to be the problem.”
“What is it?” asked Hermione, trying to make sense of the image that was floating above her chest.
“You have no heart,” said Severus, his voice flat and inflectionless.
The trainees began to whisper among themselves. “If you would kindly follow me,” said Healer Jones in a loud voice, “we will adjourn to the Healer’s lounge to discuss this case.”
As the trainees filed out, Severus shot Healer Jones a dark look. “See that they speak to no-one about this,” he said in his most dangerous voice.
“Even Healers-in-training have taken an oath of confidentiality,” assured Healer Jones. “However, I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be able to keep your condition a secret, Ms Granger.”
“We’re aware of the stakes, thank you,” said Severus icily. “We shall inform you when the missing organ is located.”
Healer Jones nodded shortly and retreated to the hall.
“We’re missing something,” said Hermione, frowning at the list of missing body parts, to which Severus had added “heart,” which he'd followed with a lonely-looking dash.
“There is a long list of places that you were exposed to murderous intent, and every portion that we have recovered has been in one of them,” said Severus irritably. “What makes you think we’re missing something?”
Hermione knew from long experience that Severus wasn’t angry with her, merely frustrated with how the work was going. “Call it a hunch,” said Hermione, “but I’ve been thinking about the nightmares I had about the war.”
“The ones that went away when you started writing them down?” asked Severus, in a voice that clearly encouraged her to get to the point.
“Yes. They were often about death, but they weren’t only that. It’s rather hard to describe, but death wasn’t the horror of the dreams. The terrifying part was that I was the cause.”
Severus sat on the chair next to her bed, gazing at her from beneath lowered lids. “How so?”
“Well, there was one dream about Godric’s Hollow,” she said in a halting voice. “I dreamed that Harry died that night because I’d broken his wand. Another time, I dreamed that Ron had died because I hadn’t been brave enough to try to put out the Fiendfyre. Or that Fred died because I hadn’t cast a Shield Charm quickly enough. Or that you died because I didn’t even try to-” She broke off as tears began to slide down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Severus,” she choked out.
She knew Severus was not a demonstrative man, but the stricken look on his face brought her up short. “Hermione,” he said gently, “you were meant to believe I was dead. Everyone was. What’s more, any resuscitation attempts could have interfered with the magic that kept me alive.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered again, and he produced a handkerchief to wipe her eyes and nose, which were streaming freely. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I know the heart is simply a muscle that pumps blood to the body, but my other heart feels wrong somehow. Like it’s as hollow as the place my heart is supposed to be. It’s like a hole that everything pours into, but is never filled. It’s like-.” She stopped as her mind provided the answer it had been searching for.
Severus held the handkerchief to her nose. “Blow first. Epiphany second,” he ordered.
She complied, noisily. “Like a Horcrux,” she said, her nose stuffy but no longer running. “The dreams were exactly like the awful things that Slytherin’s locket whispered into our minds during sleepless nights. Slytherin’s locket, which we stole from Dolores Umbridge in the room where my leg was found. The locations aren’t just sites of mortal terror; they have something to do with the Horcruxes. The Lestrange’s vault was where we found Hufflepuff’s Cup.”
“The Shrieking Shack likely contained your most vivid memory of Nagini,” added Severus, writing on the board as fast as he could. “And Malfoy Manor?”
“Riddle’s diary,” said Hermione decisively. “Lucius had it for safe-keeping all those years. And we found the Ravenclaw diadem in the Room of Requirement. But if this is the case, then we’re still missing two Horcruxes.”
“The ring,” said Severus.
Hermione swallowed hard. “I don't know where Harry put it,” she said at last. “But it would have to be somewhere I've been in order to fit the pattern.”
“We destroyed the soul component in Dumbeldore’s office,” said Severus. “I’ll return to Hogwarts at-”
“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed. “The last Horcrux was Harry! And he was sick; he had an awful headache. Circe, what if part of me materialised inside his head?”
“Then I daresay Potter has never been smarter, even if it’s only your gall bladder,” said Severus smirking.
Hermione scowled at him. “It’s not funny,” she said. “All sorts of harmful microbes could be on it that could make Harry deathly ill. And we have to get whatever it is out of him intact, otherwise my body might never join up again.”
Severus sobered, at least in expression. “I’ll have Healer Jones send for him.”
Hermione pretended not to hear his sniggering.
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The next half-hour was an excruciating wait, which was finally broken by Harry being wheeled into Hermione’s room on a trolley and slid into a bed next to hers. His skin had a greyish tinge to it, and he was covered in a thin film of perspiration.
“All right, Harry?” she asked.
“Head hurts,” he said, not bothering to open his eyes.
“They told you what’s wrong?”
“Yeah,” he said, opening his eyes and giving her a weak smile. “Trust you to do Voldemort one better.”
This made her laugh weakly. “When will they operate? Or extract? I don’t know what Healers call it,” she asked the porter.
“Healer Jones is preparing now,” she said, pulling the sheet up over Harry’s chest and depositing his wand, wallet, and other possessions on the nightstand between their beds. “He’ll be in soon.”
When the porter had left, Hermione looked tearfully at her friend. “Harry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“Hush, ‘mione, s’okay,” he said. “Where’s Ron an’ Snape?”
“Ron’s still looking for missing bits in Godric’s Hollow and the Forest of Dean,” she said. “If Severus finds what he’s looking for at Hogwarts, we’ll send a Patronus for him.”
“Good,” said Harry, eyes falling shut once more.
Hermione bit her lip. “Were they able to determine what part of me is in there?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Feels like it’s your foot banging me in the skull.”
If her heart was beating inside his head, he wasn’t far off. “I’m sorry,” she said again, her voice wobbly.
“Shush. I know.” Harry let out a little sigh. His breathing slowed, indicating that he was unconscious, which, Hermione realised, was a far better state for him to be in.
Hermione knew if she had been able to walk, she would have been pacing. Where was Severus? What was taking so long? Unless her body part wasn’t in the Headmistress’s office... The thought chilled her. But it couldn’t really be anywhere else, could it? The ring had come from the Gaunt’s shack, and she’d never been there. Then again, the ring had been inside the Snitch Dumbledore had left for Harry, so technically, it had been with them during the whole year. But it hadn’t been a Horcrux, then. And how had her body known to send a part of itself to every place where a Horcrux had met its end before she even knew what a Horcrux was? Perhaps she had known at some point and simply forgotten. But these questions were unanswerable at present, and therefore not worth worrying about.
She had to eliminate some possibilities, or else she would go mad.
Realistically, if her heart was inside Harry’s head, he would be dead. There would simply have been too much pressure on his brain. Harry hadn’t been a deliberate Horcrux, so perhaps Severus was on to something when he suggested that it was her gall bladder inside his head. Perhaps it was her tonsils or a wisdom tooth. Regardless, it would be out of Harry’s head within the hour.
Hermione closed her eyes and imagined the ring with its stone whole. Voldemort had believed fervently in the Elder Wand-it really was one of life’s great ironies that he'd overlooked the Hallow whose legendary power overlapped with his goal of living forever. She shuddered to think about what he might have done if he’d known the ring in which he'd concealed his poisonous soul possessed the power to bring back the dead.
In her mind’s eye, Hermione saw Dumbledore in his office, the ring adorning his black, shrivelled hand. There was Fawkes on his perch, and the table of Dumbledore’s inventions. There were the portraits, the Sorting Hat, even the dish of sherbet lemons. And then she knew. There was only one place in that office that could conceal a living, beating heart. She had to tell Severus. But how? Harry was unconscious, and there was nobody else she trusted in the immediate vicinity who could get the message to him.
She looked around the room and spied Harry’s wand lying on the nightstand. Hermione’s detached arms were still slow to respond to her commands, but she was able to drag her arm across her body by walking her fingers spiderlike toward the edge of the bed. Unfortunately, the edge was still several inches away from the nightstand where the wand lay. She would have to span the breach, somehow.
The fingers of her left hand flexed normally, despite being burned and heavily bandaged. She inched the arm up over her chest and up to the edge of the bed. She then took a deep breath and flung the arm into the space between the bed and nightstand. Unfortunately, the arm was still an inch or two short of the nightstand, but it protruded from the bed far enough that Hermione was able to walk her other hand across and wrap her fingers around the wand.
Hermione was breathing hard with the mental and physical effort of commanding her limbs remotely, and that was only the beginning. Her fingers, the only reliable means of moving her arm, were currently wrapped around Harry’s wand and could not both hold it and move. Thus, she would have to cast the spell she had in mind with her detached arm lying on the nightstand. Harry’s wand buzzed in her hand, half in protest, it seemed, and half in eagerness to heal its ill master.
“Here goes nothing,” she said to herself. She closed her eyes and let her mind wander backwards in time to a time when she felt happy. She was both surprised and unsurprised that the most recent time she had laughed until her sides ached had been two days ago. Severus had pointed out the unfortunate acronym of the Proceedings of the Natural Institutes of Spellbindery. She pictured the mischievous curl of his lip and the light dancing in his dark eyes and flexed her wrist. “Expecto Patronum.”
To her relief and delight, her silvery otter shot out of her wand and danced around her bed, waiting for instructions.
“Find Severus,” she told it. “He’s at Hogwarts. Tell him to bring the Sorting Hat here and please hurry. Harry’s in a bad way.”
Her otter twirled in comprehension and galloped off, its thick tail held high.
At this juncture, Healer Jones burst into the suite, smelling of antiseptic potion, and followed by trainees in cloth masks.
“Extraction of a foreign object from the head is something Healers in the Spell Damage ward do on a regular basis,” he said, addressing the other Healers. “However, the procedure is slightly trickier because there’s no entry wound. Thus, we must rely on our wands with the Scanning Spell to guide us! Fortunately for the patient, we have a sixty-five percent survival rate for such procedures. You can find further information in Aloysius Butcher’s treatise on trepanation. If you will all gather around, I will begin the procedure. For the patient’s safety, please remain silent while-”
Healer Jones was cut off by a deafening CRACK, and he jumped. “What in blazes? It’s illegal to Apparate into-”
Severus rushed into the room holding the ancient, dingy Hat. Healer Jones stared at it bewilderedly. “Is that-?”
“Yes,” said Severus shortly. “I can’t begin to fathom why-”
“Put it on my head,” ordered Hermione. “Please.”
Severus looked as if he wanted to comment on the absurdity of the proceedings, but he did as she requested.
Hermione was convinced that the Hat had some sort of Expansion Charm on it that made it perpetually several sizes too large for the head upon which it sat because the Hat fell down over her eyes the same way it had when she was eleven.
“Heavens to Hatbands!” exclaimed the familiar voice in her ear. “I’ve seen bodies without heads, but rarely a head without a body.”
“I believe you have something that belongs to me,” thought Hermione. “I need it now.”
“Yes and no,” said the Hat in a cagey sort of voice. “I’m not entirely certain it belongs to you.”
“Don’t be silly,” she thought crossly. “Who else could it belong to?”
“That is the question, now, isn’t it?” asked the Hat.
“For pity’s sake, there isn’t time for riddles!” Hermione exclaimed, not caring if the others could hear her. “It’s a matter of life and death. Harry could die because of me! You’re the only one who can help us.”
“By Milliner, you're right!” exclaimed the Hat.
In response, a heavy metal object fell down on Hermione’s head. “OW!”
Severus leapt to her aid and pulled the Hat from her head. He hesitated a moment, then reached down to retrieve the shining sword that the Hat had dropped on her head.
“What in Merlin’s name-?” began Healer Jones.
Severus was looking at the sword as if it might bite him, and he raised his eyes to Hermione’s, only to find her looking at Healer Jones.
“Healer Jones, can you use a Goblin-made sword?”
The Healer’s eyes widened, and he took the sword from Severus. “It’s an overlarge blade,” he said, considering, “but its properties could prove invaluable.” He turned to his assistants.
“Who can tell me why a Goblin-made blade is useful in internal procedures?”
“Because wounds made with it don’t bleed,” said Hermione impatiently.
“At least not in humans,” added one of the assistants. “Supposedly to protect Goblins from liability, but probably more to do with keeping their human prisoners alive as long as possible.”
“Correct,” he said to the trainee, ignoring Hermione. One of the attendants sprayed another potion on the blade of the sword, which made it gleam brightly. “Right so, we’d best get on with it,” said Healer Jones.
The assistants gathered around Harry’s bedside, and Healer Jones bent over Harry and raised the sword. Hermione couldn’t look. She heard an awful crunching, sawing sound and feared her stomach would rebel. Hermione closed her eyes, trying not to listen to the whispered spells and what they were doing to her friend. Her meditation was interrupted by a triumphant exclamation from Healer Jones.
“Got it!” he cried. There was a metallic thunk as a small, fleshy object was tossed into a pan. “You lot close up, and note the clean edges of the cut-with proper application of Collagus Concoction, there won’t even be a scar. Ms Granger?”
“Yes?” asked Hermione, her eyes still closed.
“Don’t you want to see?”
“Not particularly,” she said. “What is it?”
“Your appendix,” he said. “Neatest removal I ever saw. I’ll keep it in suspension until your heart is found, just in case it’s needed to reconnect your body, but if it’s not, you might consider getting rid of it.” He wiped the blade of the sword on a clean towel and laid it on the nightstand. “Now, if you will all follow me across the hall, we can discuss the procedure.”
They left, leaving Harry unconscious, his scar redder than usual but in all other ways seemingly untouched.
“For all that Jones is an insensitive git who talks too much, he’s an adequate surgeon,” commented Severus.
Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “Thank Merlin. Did they have to-you know-with his brain?”
“The appendix practically popped out of his head as soon as they were through the skull,” said Severus. “No digging was necessary. Now, if your squeamishness has been catered to sufficiently, I need to get back to Hogwarts.”
Hermione looked at him, taking in his impatient, put-upon expression, and a warm feeling ran through her as understanding dawned on her. “That won’t be necessary, Severus,” she said, hardly daring to believe her own solution to the Hat’s riddle. “I believe my heart has already been returned.”
He looked at her oddly. “You believe?”
“I’m fairly certain,” she amended. “Would you be so kind as to put on the Hat?”
He looked as if he wished to protest, but took the battered leather Hat and placed it on his head. It fell down over his eyes. He stood there for several long minutes, and Hermione felt her distant heart beating faster for reasons she daren’t think about very much for fear of jinxing the result.
At last, Severus lifted the Hat from his head and reached his arm into it. Suddenly, his expression became one of surprise, which quickly fell into concern.
“You might wish to close your eyes,” he said. “It’s doesn’t look like a paper valentine.”
“I wouldn’t want you to give me a paper valentine,” she said, fixing her eyes calmly on him. “Too flimsy and traditional.”
“What I have in my hand is indeed more substantial,” he said, “but I fear the sight of it in my hand might be troubling to you.”
“Severus, has it occurred to you that there is a reason the Hat wouldn’t relinquish my heart to me, but it did to you?”
“You’d have fainted,” he said, smirking.
She scowled at him. “Would you stop being so literal?” she asked crossly.
“One of us has to be,” he retorted. “Symbolism and psychological undertones are all very well and good when sorting out the logic behind uncontrolled bursts of magic caused by shattering wands, but the rest of the time, seeing exactly what is in front of one is far preferable.”
“Oh?” asked Hermione. “And what precisely do you see in front of you?”
“My separated partner,” he said, his mouth quirking into a half-smile.
“You are impossible,” she said, trying to ignore the giggle that was threatening to bubble up.
“Now, my heart, if you please.”
Severus withdrew the beating object from the Hat, cradling it gently in his palm.
Hermione reflected that it really couldn’t have had a better caretaker, just before passing out.
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All in all, Hermione was beginning to tire of drifting into consciousness in St. Mungo’s, especially when she sensed that she was surrounded by people who were whispering excitedly.
She opened her eyes to find that her supposition had been correct. Healer Jones, all the trainees, Ron, Severus, and Harry were all there, though the latter three looked none too pleased by the presence of the first.
“She’s awake,” said Severus softly, though there was a definite edge to his voice. “I trust you will leave us in peace, now.” This was a statement rather than a request.
“I must judge how the Reunification took,” said the Healer, clearly disliking being told where to go in his own ward.
Hermione tentatively drew her arm up and pulled it over the top of the sheet. It responded immediately, and she let out a sigh of relief. At Healer Jones’s prompting, she tested the other parts of her body and was finally allowed to sit up on the bed and finally to stand up. All of her parts stayed where they were supposed to. When Healer Jones was satisfied, he finally led his entourage from Hermione’s room, much to her relief.
“All right, Harry?” she asked her friend, who was sitting on the bed that he had of late occupied.
“Fine,” he said, giving her a grin. “Although I think Ginny’s going to be a bit mad.”
Hermione blushed. “I’ll apologise to her personally when I’m released.”
“Not at you,” said Harry, grinning. “At Healer Jones.” He parted his fringe in the centre. To Hermione’s shock, the lightning bolt scar that had graced his forehead as long as she had known him was no longer there.
“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed. “The Healers cut through it to get, you know, out of your head and healed it a bit too well?”
“We reckon that the bit of old Voldie’s soul that kept it from healing is long gone,” said Ron. “All right,” he amended at Severus’s sharp look, “Snape reckoned. But it makes sense, right?”
“So why is Ginny going to be mad?”
“Are you kidding? Now that I don’t have to worry about being recognised by all and sundry if my forehead’s uncovered, I’m getting a haircut! Gin says she likes it scruffy, but I can’t help wanting to look a bit more distinguished like. Now that I’m older, I mean.”
“Potter,” said Severus. “Your haircut has nothing to do with how distinguished you are.”
“Thanks, Snape,” said Harry, either unaware of Severus’s sarcasm or choosing to ignore it. “Glad to see you’re all in one piece, Hermione, but I’ve got to get home and rest up. I’ve got two days’ work to catch up on tomorrow.”
“Thanks for everything, Harry,” said Hermione, her eyes threatening to spill over tears. “And I am-”
“Sooooo sorry,” chorused the boys.
Hermione glared at them. “You realise that I’m going to have a new wand soon that’ll be even better at hexing than my old wand.”
“We plan to be far away by the time that happens,” said Ron gaily. “See you later, Hermione.”
“I’ll go and see about your release,” said Severus, following the boys out.
“Severus, wait,” Hermione called. “I can’t Apparate to Diagon Alley without a wand,” she said. “If I could impose on your kindness just one more time, I’d be most grateful. I’d even buy you lunch at the chippy afterwards.”
He looked at her, considering. “You really ought to get some rest.”
Hermione grinned. Severus knew as well as she did that she could always use the Floo network to get to Ollivander’s, but he hadn’t pointed it out. Emboldened, she met his eye. “We could always do both together.”
“I don’t need a new wand,” he scoffed, eyes warm.
“But you can’t deny that you need time to recover from this. We’re neither of us going to be any use at work until we’re back to normal.”
“What if I’m not interested in going back to normal?”
Hermione’s heart swelled, and this time, she could fully appreciate the fact. She rose to her feet and walked to him, stopping mere inches from where he stood. “Then it sounds as if we’re in perfect agreement.”
Wand in hand, Severus closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her waist, spinning as he did so. Fortunately, Hermione’s stomach was jumping around far too much to be disturbed by something as minor as side-along Apparition, and they landed on the street in front of Ollivander’s, still embracing.
He staggered when they landed, but she stood her ground, allowing her legs to absorb his momentum and holding him steadily. His eyes met hers, and she was certain he would have kissed her had they not been standing in the middle of a crowded shopping district.
Ten minutes later, Hermione was the proud owner of a new wand, which shot out silver swirls of light when her fingers closed around it-an effect that Mr. Ollivander Jr. assured her would wear off after a few days when the wand had got used to her.
Twenty minutes later, Hermione was enjoying the cod fillet she’d been wanting for days. She pretended not to see Severus steal her chips.
Thirty minutes later, Hermione was amused to note that Severus tasted slightly of malt vinegar.
Forty minutes later, she had no thought in her head, save to remove her clothes as quickly as possible and thank the powers that be that she'd bothered to wear the fancy stockings.
Fifty years later, Severus still grumbled his disapproval at the overly sentimental ending of the novella she’d written about the circumstances surrounding their non-existent courtship. Or at least, that's what Hermione extrapolated as she published it, to her friends' delight and Severus's grudging approval.
Time will probably prove her supposition to be correct. After all, Hermione is a very good theoretician.
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The End
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A/N: Enormous thanks to Mr. 42 and melusin-79 for their superb beta-reading and Brit-picking skills! I would be grammatically incorrect, improperly punctuated, canon-shafted, and overly Dickensian without you! All readers owe their lack of confusion to you!