"Forward to Time Past" by Claudia. Six.

That was the first thing Severus realised after regaining consciousness. After that, he noticed that his surroundings weren’t those of St Mungo’s, but some anaemic waiting room painted white, with bogey-green-and-off-white chequered synthetic floor-tiles and Muggle vending machines humming in one corner. It was crowded and it was loud, children were hunting each other through the rows of narrow plastic chairs arranged in the small, airless room. The people were smelling, and the whole experience was quite overwhelming to a wizard. Severus withdrew his pocket-watch from his waistcoat. The loop should have started three hours ago. That was probably why he experienced a faint rumbling beginning in his stomach.

“You all right, sir?” asked someone, a woman with a feverish child in her arms.

Severus swallowed. “Quite all right,” he murmured. The woman scrutinised him unashamedly.

“You with theatre folk?” she asked.

He must have looked positively scandalised, but then a little voice in the back of his head told him that that probably was the most reasonable explanation for his appearance. Not every man in this waiting room was wearing Victorian-style clothing. “Yes,” he said curtly.

“What’s the story?”

“The story?” Severus asked. He was still wondering why he kept talking to that infernal woman. “A colleague had a little accident at rehearsal,” he said.

“Not too bad, though, is ‘e?”

He stared at her. “She,” he replied, “won’t live to see this evening.”

Now it was the mother who looked scandalised, and shocked. “So sorry. ‘ow can ye be so sure?”

“I just know it,” he said cryptically. After a pause, the woman had gone quite pale, he felt that this short exchange had left him with a strange taste in his mouth. “What’s wrong with your child?”

At that, the woman warmed to him quite visibly. “Oh, dunno. Runnin’ a fever since yesterday mornin’. Not eatin’, cryin’. Says there’s pain in ‘er ears.”

“Oh,” he had a good idea of what it was that the child was ailing, but this was Muggle London, and he’d be damned rather than to meddle with that woman’s affairs, no matter how nice she had been to him. “How long have you been waiting then?” he asked for want of anything else to say.

The woman was just about to reply, when a stout and surly looking nurse with a clipboard and crisp apron announced his name. He got up and met the nurse at the mouth of a corridor that lead to the examination rooms. “The doctor would like to have a word with you, Mr Snape,” the nurse informed him, and walked him to a room on the left.

“Oh, one more thing,” she said, turning around. “What is your relationship with Miss Granger?”

“I’m in charge of her at the moment,” Severus replied without hesitating.

“Are you her father?” the nurse asked suspiciously.

“No!” he nearly exclaimed. “Sweet Merlin, no. I’m her mentor. We are … quite close.”

The nurse smiled sweetly at him. “Of course you are, Mr Snape. This way, please. The doctor’s waiting for you.” She opened a door to a nondescript room, and it was as if she had shoved him in there. It was a shared office of the doctors on duty, and it didn’t have any personal touch whatsoever. Just a table with one of those Muggle machines on it, and two chairs. One of which was occupied by a doctor who wasn’t older than Hermione.

He stood and gestured for Severus to sit. “I’m Ms Granger’s doctor,” the young man said. “My name is Petersen.” He spoke with a soft, German-sounding accent.

Severus didn’t reply anything, just waited for Petersen to continue.

“Can I ask how close you are to Ms Granger?”

Severus looked at him. Why kept everyone asking him this? “I am her mentor. At university. I was accompanying her to an important exam.”

“Ah.” Obviously, this more elaborate explanation added less fuel to the flame, or the young doctor was blissfully naïve. Or just too preoccupied with what he would have to explain to this ‘mentor’ now. “Mr Snape, I asked because of Ms Granger’s condition.”

“Yes?” Severus urged him on, unable to get used to the Mr in front of his name.

“It is very important that Ms Granger is together with somebody who knows her well. She suffered an amnesia,” Petersen explained.

“Ah,” was all that Severus managed. “And what about physical injuries?”

Petersen looked at him in surprise. “You don’t understand. Ms Granger has lost memory of who she is.”

“I know what an amnesia entails,” Severus replied gruffly. Just because he wasn’t a Healer didn’t mean he didn’t have the foggiest. “What about her physical injuries?”

“They—“ Petersen began, shuffling around the few papers that lay in front of him on the white table top, “she has a sprained wrist, and a light concussion. A cracked rib. And a few scratches.”

The wizard looked at the Muggle doctor hard, in expectance of more to come. But when more didn’t come, Severus asked: “That’s it?”

“She must have had a guardian angel,” Petersen said; he was recovering his smile. “And the amnesia is only temporal. I’m confident that she remembers everything tomorrow night.”

Severus almost snorted. ‘Temporal’ was the right word. “Can I see her?”

“Ah, yes,” the Muggle doctor said, now smiling. “You can even leave. Just come tomorrow afternoon so I can have a look at Ms Granger.”

“Ja, take her home,” Petersen nodded.

Severus was relieved, but on the other hand he didn’t quite trust the doctor’s words. There must be something that caused Hermione’s death. Or was this the end of it, the end of the loop? “Are you all right?” he was asked again.

“Yes,” Severus replied thoughtfully. “I was just afraid that what with the accident, Ms Granger’s injuries would be more severe. Are you quite sure that it’s just a concussion?”

“A mild concussion,” Petersen corrected. “Yes. There’s no need to worry. Just don’t let her do something difficult today, okay?”

Petersen stood and lead Severus to the examination room where Hermione was waiting. She was fully dressed, sitting on the narrow examination couch. She was sporting several orange-stained plasters and her right wrist was bandaged. She had braided her hair into a thick plait, and she looked rather forlorn.

“Ms Granger?” Petersen said.

She looked up at them. When her eyes fell on Severus, he had the impression as if he could see her heart sink. Did he look that bad?

“This is Mr Snape,” the doctor said. “He brought you here. He is your teacher.”

“Mentor,” Severus corrected.

“Sorry. If you sign here you can leave,” Petersen explained, indicating a dotted line on a clipboard with his biro.

Severus scrawled his signature quickly on the document, and a minute later, Petersen was gone.

“Well, Hermione, I think it’s time to go,” Severus said, offering her his arm.

“But I don’t know you,” Hermione replied, not moving.

“You can trust me,” Severus said softly. “Despite my looks. I am your mentor. I’ve been helping you with your Master Thesis this past twelvemonth.”

“But why am I in a Muggle hospital?”

Severus couldn’t stop laughing out this time. It was a soft sound, but it was heartfelt, and full of relief. If that was the price, amnesia in lieu of death, then he was only too glad to pay it.

“What’s so funny?” Hermione asked, her temper threatening to flare. She had never liked being not taken serious, particularly when it concerned her intelligence; her formidable intelligence.

“Nothing,” Severus recovered. “My apologies. You asked me to take you here. But let’s not talk about this now. I’m sure they need this room for other patients.” He offered her his arm again, and this time she took it, sliding carefully off the couch’s edge.

“So I can trust you?”

Severus nodded. “Yes. Yes, you can trust me.”

They left the casualty ward and turned right at the next corner to get to Diagon Alley. They walked in silence, Hermione still holding on to his arm as if it were her life line. He couldn’t blame her. If she lost him, she would lose the one wizard who knew who she was.

“What do I call you?” she eventually asked.

“Severus,” he replied. “Call me Severus.”

“And you are my mentor.”

Severus knew that he would have to be patient for the interview. It as quite inevitable, but he was confident that he wouldn’t have to go into detail too deeply – they had only eight and a half hours to go -- if this wasn’t the end of the time loop. He had a feeling that it wasn’t, but what with the dramatic changes he couldn’t be absolutely sure. “Yes,” he replied. “I helped you with your Master Thesis. We were on our way to the hearing with the Potions Research Board at the Ministry to get you authorised as a teacher.”

“Gosh, that sounds impressive,” Hermione replied.

“It is, in fact, impressive,” Severus said, trying with little success to sound matter-of-factly. He was quite proud of her achievements.

They walked in silence for a while, making their way through a quiet and largely deserted park. Here at last they could talk without being disturbed and without having to watch out for the heavy London traffic.

Hermione smiled. “That seems like you’re not used to giving praise,” she said, and added, “if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I’m not handing it out like sherbet lemons, if that’s what you mean,” he admitted. It was difficult to grasp that it was merely her memory that was gone; somehow, he had always thought that losing one’s memory entailed losing one’s character. Maybe he had just thought about Lockhart once too often.

Her frankness surprised him, too, but he would have to keep in mind that she didn’t remember him, either. To her, he was her mentor Snape who had accompanied her to a hearing and brought her to hospital after the accident. She didn’t know him as a teacher anymore.

“Well,” he said to distract himself from his thoughts, “at least you know you’re a witch. Is there anything else you recall?”

“It’s all very foggy, I’m afraid,” Hermione mused.

“Maybe some tea will help,” Severus suggested. “It usually does help me to focus.”

Hermione beamed openly at him, and again, he was caught unawares by it. He wasn’t used to having this kind of an effect on people. “That would be wonderful. That, and a sandwich. I’m famished.”

Rather than taking their lunch at the Leaky Cauldron or Florean Fortescue’s, they stopped at the pavilion offering refreshments in the centre of the park. They sat outside at a small metal table with mismatched chairs, the chipped white surface dappled by the light filtering through the foliage above. Severus paid for their tea and sandwiches with some Muggle change he always had on him when going to London – one never knew what happened, and he would hate being helpless in the Muggle world.

The sandwiches were homemade and looked delicious, but other than Hermione, Severus bit into his with a feeling of dread. And right he was, for the sandwich was absolutely bare of any taste whatsoever. He continued to eat, for it still held the nutrition he needed, but the joy of eating was gone.

“Is it just me or are these sandwiches a tad bland?” Hermione asked, looking at hers sceptically.

“It’s us, Hermione,” Severus said chagrined. Of course she would notice that fact, and he was still hoping she wouldn’t ask about their situation. But he knew it was helpless; Hermione was far too clever for that.

“What’s wrong with us?”

Instead of an answer, Severus asked her to have a look at the Time Turner she was carrying for Minerva. She looked surprised that he should know about it, but did as he asked without further ado. The envelope had been trapped between two books – her Master Thesis and Ginny Weasley’s novel – and when she broke the seal, sand and tiny bits of the shattered hourglass trickled onto her open palm. Hermione looked at the broken Time Turner for a small eternity. Then she looked up again at Severus.

“What’s,” she asked, her voice catching, “what’s the effect of it?”

“A time loop,” he explained. “A time loop that has us relive this day again and again.”

“How long have we been in it?”

“Five days. We use Ms Weasley’s novel to keep track of the passage of time. I read a chapter to you every day.”

“Are all the days the same?” she wanted to know.

Severus shook his head. “No, every one is a little bit different from the others. Today has been the most dramatic change so far.” He sipped at the fluid that was tea, and told her what had happened so far. But he omitted to mention the ending of each loop. Maybe he was lucky and she wouldn’t ask.

She asked another difficult question, though. “How are we going to end the time loop?”

“I don’t know,” he said, meeting her gaze openly, and unafraid. “I’m afraid I don’t know.” Then he put everything they knew about their situation in a nutshell. And added: “Our wishes – as long as they are not about ending this or about the food – are granted, in the next loop.”

“It sounds as if it were a treat for something we did. Or rather,” she amended, “you did. I seem to be very passive.”

He hadn’t commented on that, Severus realised when it was too late. Maybe she had made a point without noticing it. “That sounds interesting,” he mused. “It goes together with the shortening of the time inside the loop – or at least our experience of it.”

“But what about the lack of taste?” Hermione quickly caught on to his train of thoughts, as always. He looked at her, something akin to relief flowing through him.

Hermione smiled back.

Had he been smiling?

“Hm,” he said, clearing his throat, “that is indeed strange. It robs us of the enjoyment of food. Of smell. But other than that …”

“As long as we don’t have to brew a potion, that shouldn’t be too bad,” she said, yawning.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired. And my head hurts a bit,” she said.

“Maybe we should rest for a while,” Severus suggested, trying in vain to shake off the heaviness that seemed to have settled rather suddenly in his limbs. He turned to look toward the other people who had made themselves comfortable on blankets in the grass – or what was left of it. It had been a rather hot summer, or so he’d heard. It was always comfortably cool up at Hogwarts.

He bade her take the book out of her bag, and transfigured the bag into a blanket. They settled on it in the shade, Severus feeling awkward in his stocking feet. Hermione’s feet were bare, and for a moment or two he kept staring at them. He liked their shape and rosy colour, their perfect, small size, and even the nail-varnish she had applied. He must have looked at them a moment too long, for she wriggled her toes.

He wriggled his in response, in their woollen covering. “Shall we get on with keeping track of the time, then, or would you like to get some rest first?”

She lay down, curling in on herself, wincing when she did something nasty to her tender ribcage. “I hope you don’t mind when I fall asleep on you.”

“No one ever falls asleep on me,” he said, appalled.

“Oh,” Hermione said, sitting up. She touched her forehead in the process, as if to support it or massage the pain away.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said, “you keep asking me that.”

“I forgot to take my potion,” he replied dryly. Everything to distract her from that line of thinking. “Well then, Chapter Ten.”

She didn’t fall asleep, but listened attentively, as if listening to him and concentrating on the words dulled the pain. An hour passed, and he put the book away.

“I would have liked to hear more about the landscape,” she offered. “And the High Priest is a scary person.”

“Indeed. We’re lucky most if this chapter was expositional,” he said.

“Oh, I would have enjoyed it anyway,” she replied. “You have a beautiful voice for reading. Now I know why no one ever falls asleep on you.” There was an almost wicked twinkle in her eyes that he hadn’t seen with her before. But then again, theirs was a professional relationship. And normally, she knew him. And he usually didn’t encourage bantering.

He smiled softly. It wasn’t often that he was being given compliments. “My pleasure,” he said, covering the white bandage of her wand hand with his.

But she had already fallen asleep. She was lying on her side, and her chest was rising and falling in the gentle rhythm of sleep’s breath. He covered her bare feet with a corner of the blanket. It was not time yet, and he breathed in deeply. So far, death hadn’t come to her before it was time, even when the loops grew shorter. They had a couple of hours left.

He tipped his head back for the support of the trunk he was leaning against. Drowsiness was claiming him, too. He had gone without sleep far too long already – and he was used to little to no sleep for days at a time.

Sensing movement at his side, the gentle draft of somebody moving near him, he snapped awake, disoriented for a second. Was this a new loop? Or still the old? Or had he just fallen asleep?

Hermione knelt by his side, holding a small plastic bottle out for him. “Sorry I woke you,” she said.

He accepted the bottle, and took a long drink of the cold water. “Thank you.” It was only then that he realised that he had only fallen asleep. As the last remains of the drowsiness lifted off his body, he felt refreshed.

Having changed the blanket back into Hermione’s bag, they continued on their way to Diagon Alley. A watchmaker had his shop there, and maybe he could help them. With what, exactly, or how, they didn’t know, but maybe he could help them. Both of them had of course considered seeking help with the Time Room at the Department of Mysteries, but since they didn’t have connections to the institution or the Unspeakables, it was hopeless to expect any help from them. They would have to tell some numbskull their story, but by the time anyone believed them and sent them on to the Unspeakables, the loop would be starting over again. It was a Sisyphean task. Worse than finding a solution on their own.

Severus noticed out of the corner of his eye that Hermione looked thoughtful, as if an image was drifting into her consciousness, a memory, but it was gone before she could grasp it.

“Why did you take me to a Muggle hospital?” she asked.

“You asked me to,” he replied.

“But why would I ask such a thing?” she wondered, more to herself.

“That’s beyond me,” Severus said, not entirely lying; he had not really understood her motivations, and he wasn’t going to get tangled in that web. He was still loath to tell her about the ending of each loop.

Hermione turned around. They were standing in front of the Leaky Cauldron. “I don’t believe you.”

Severus shrugged, realising that if he wasn’t careful, the situation could get out of hand. “You explained it to me, something about a second opinion.”

“A second opinion about what?” she pressed, scenting something was amiss. Truth to be told, Severus would have been disappointed had she not.

“About your injuries. Look, can’t we talk about this inside?” he asked. There were far too many people around this busy street corner for his taste. At least they could enter the closed-down looking wizarding pub undetected. The street was so busy that people only minded their own steps; as for their ears – better stay on the safe side. Some habits died hard.

“What about my injuries?” Hermione wouldn’t let go.

“You’ve got a concussion, and we have to be careful,” Severus explained, his resolution being tried.

“We?” Hermione allowed him to ushering her through the busy pub and out into the backyard, where he opened a secret door by tapping the brick of the blackened wall with the confidence of frequent use. “What exactly is our relationship?”

This made him whirl around. He would have liked to tell her that he didn’t know, he wasn’t sure because everything seemed to be changing, shifting towards something more personal, intimate even. And for a brief moment, a little voice in the back of his head asked him why he didn’t. “I guess we are … friends,” he eventually said.

She looked at him hard. “Is that what we are.” It wasn’t a question. In fact, it was pure sarcasm.

He couldn’t suppress a smile. Then he gestured for her to come with him to the watchmaker’s, and guided her some of the way with his hand barely touching the small of her back. Diagon Alley was as busy as ever, and they made their way through the street undetected, for the crowds were inspecting the shop window displays and goods presented in front of the shops. The shop of the watchmaker was on a narrow street off Diagon Alley, and when they entered its shadows, Severus felt Hermione take a deep breath. The air was much cooler here, and it wasn’t as noisy. He could have hexed himself. It would have been better not to take Hermione here, not with a concussion – even if it was supposedly a mild one.

“That’s it, over there,” he said, steering her toward a simple but elegant looking red shop front. The door was open, but nobody was in. The shop was sparsely furnished, and the display cases that held watches and clocks of various make, age and purpose were not as overwhelmingly full as was the case in most of the other shops. For a watchmaker’s, it was blissfully quiet in here, too; a silencing charm had been cast over the ticking and chiming and howling and crowing and what-not clocks.

When the watchmaker entered, their eyes hadn’t had time yet to adjust to the gloom. It was a young wizard, barely older than Hermione, and he wore a simple, white shirt and a kilt. “Good afternoon, Professor,” he said, with a kind of friendly reserve that all his former pupils showed in his presence.

“Good afternoon, Mr Thyme. The watchmaker isn’t in, I suppose?”

Thyme’s palms came to rest on the shiny ebony countertop. “I am the watchmaker, sir.”

“Oh, well …” Severus said, caught by surprise.

“I’ve had a little accident,” Hermione jumped in, smiling sweetly at Thyme. His features warmed visibly to her, Severus noted, a little to his dismay, even. Was he that bad? Did his teaching warrant this kind of ostracism even years after the pupils’ N.E.W.T.s?

“Sorry to hear that,” Thyme said. “How can I be of service?”

Hermione retrieved the envelope that held the broken Time Turner, and upended its contents on a small white tray Thyme managed to provide just in time. He examined the remains of the instrument, casting a spell to enlarge the bits and pieces. A huge tray of debris that looked like the twisted skeleton of an astrolabe popped up on the counter, and they had to step aside to be able to look at each other again.

“A Time Turner,” Thyme whispered. He quickly reduced the instrument to its original size.

“I don’t suppose you get to see many of those,” Severus asked, his voice laced with only the tiniest hint of a sneer.

“Yes, I do,” Thyme replied. “But usually the Ministry contacts me directly.”

“Oh, but this Time Turner belongs to Professor Dumbledore,” Hermione explained. “He asked me to take it to the Ministry.”

“I see.” Thyme picked up the biggest bit. The metal frame, not unlike that surrounding a globe, was still fairly intact; it wasn’t bent too much or broken. Only the tiny hourglass was irreparably damaged. “I can repair it, but I’m afraid that it will lose its magic.” He put the framework down and looked at them. “Maybe Professor Dumbledore would like to keep it, since there’s no harm in it any more.”

“That’s why we actually came,” Severus chimed in. “The harm’s already done.”

Thyme looked at them, clearly expecting the worst. He gestured for them to go on.

“We’re trapped in a time loop.”

The watchmaker looked from one to the other and back. “Dear me. And you’re both in it?”

“That’s strange, because normally – if you can call anything relating to time normal – or anyway, previously, we’ve only heard mostly of single persons or objects being trapped in a time loop.”

“Yes, we know,” Severus cut in somewhat impatiently. He had read Oswald’s book, after all. “But what does that mean? How do we get out of the loop?”

“Forgive my impertinence, sir, but what exactly is your relationship with this young lady?” Thyme dared ask.

Severus was annoyed by being asked that question again, rather than by its nature.

“You see,” Thyme continued, graciously letting his former teacher off the hook, “there have been cases when there was a strong emotional bond between the victims.”

Severus and Hermione exchanged startled looks. Of course, Hermione didn’t know about any feelings she might have had for him, and he still wasn’t sure how to label the feelings he had for her. They were there. There was no way around admitting to it. He had worked together with her during the past year, had even enjoyed her company and the interesting conversations they had had. And it pained him beyond description that she should day night after night in his arms.

“Ah, well,” Hermione managed. Without a second thought, she returned the remains of the Time Turner into the envelope.

“And the release?” Severus asked with the courage born of desperation. This wizard was able and willing to help them, and Severus wouldn’t let that one chance pass, not if he wanted to look himself in the eye again.

Thyme shrugged. “That depends on the nature of your feelings.”

Adrenaline rushed through Severus’ body. “That’s it?”

Thyme shrugged again.

When they stepped outside into the dusty street, which was a step lower than the shop’s polished hardwood floors, Hermione felt disoriented and grabbed Severus’ arm for support. He looked at her, asking her without words if she was okay. “Maybe we should get you some rest,” he suggested.

“That would be great,” Hermione said. She smiled at him weakly, as if through a veil of pain. Severus began to feel much surer about the suspicions that he had had ever since talking to Petersen, and Bones’ reassurances. Hermione was suffering from a severe injury, very likely in the head, that was hard or even impossible to detect until it was too late.

“We could get you back to the hospital for some pain relief,” he said.

“But the Apothecary is just—“

“Hermione, you wanted to be treated by Muggle doctors, so I think it would be best to continue in this fashion,” he reminded her with a not unkind sternness.

Hermione sighed, and touched her forehead. “I guess it would, wouldn’t it?”

By the time they entered the casualty ward of the hospital, Severus had to carry Hermione. The pain was so overwhelmingly powerful that it turned her knees into jelly, and she had told him that her vision had become blurry. He Apparated them straight from the park where they had spent the afternoon to a secluded place near the hospital.

Half an hour later, Severus found himself in a waiting room again. His suspicions had proven true: there was some hardly detectable haemorrhage. Those “doctors” – educated people by name – were operating on her now. Severus had insisted that they not do this, that Hermione didn’t want it. But since he wasn’t a relative, he had had no say and could do nothing, because Hermione hadn’t been compos mentis any longer – or conscious, for that matter.

He looked at his watch, a family heirloom his maternal grandfather had given him for his sorting ceremony. It was an old watch, but it kept perfect time, even inside this loop. They had three hours to go.

He hadn’t listened when the doctors explained what needed to be done; he preferred ignorance in this case, because the mere thought of all the bloodshed in the name of healing didn’t agree with his wizarding background. So he turned his thoughts away from what happened behind that unfriendly pair of doors labelled “No access unless authorised”; he was still with Hermione. There had been no time to make sense of what Thyme had told him.

Which was, frankly, not much and didn’t sound very reliable either. At least now he knew why they were in this together. There was a strong emotional bond between them. And only its nature held the key to the end of the loop.

What, in Merlin’s name, did that mean?

It sounded like one of the more obscure prophecies he’d heard.

Unaware of how much time he had spent sitting there, brooding, he was startled back to presence by a friendly nurse. And a couple of minutes later, he could see Hermione – through a protective pane of glass. He was not allowed in.

“But I am the only one she’s got,” he argued.

“I’m sorry, sir, it’s for her sake,” the nurse said in noncommittal compassion. Surely, she had to tell people this every day.

And Severus had no more strength to fight her. The mental burden had become too much, and he felt exhausted, and utterly powerless and lost. In this Muggle hospital, he felt like a fish out of water, and now he wasn’t even allowed to sit with Hermione.

He sank heavily onto the white wooden bench facing the window. In this … bed, with all those wires and hoses and whatnot intruding her body, all those machines blinking around her, Hermione was barely recognisable. He couldn’t see her face for the thing that forced oxygen into her lungs, and her head was wrapped in thick layers of white disposable bandages.

They had cut her beautiful hair off, he suddenly realised, shaved her like they would the witches in the Middle Ages.

He dropped his head into his hands.

He didn’t notice the helper who made him sign yet another slip of paper in exchange for Hermione’s belongings; her clothes, ruined as they had cut her out of them, her bag and her wand.

He accepted the strange cup in which they offered him a scalding drink – tea? –, barely noticing who was holding it out for him.

And again and again, he looked at his grandfather’s watch.

And he wished firmly that this was either the end of the loop, or that they be taken to Hogwarts’ Hospital Wing.

When it was nearly time, he got up to be physically closer to Hermione, irrational as that was with the pane between them. Severus had noticed that some blinking, beeping machine was visualising her heartbeat. The spiky green line was getting flatter by the minute. He was at his most powerless, and he closed his eyes as the line went flat.