Ringworm

by HulaHula

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters, settings, etc. from the Harry Potter universe. Jo Rowling does.

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Hermione entered the open doorway leading into Professor Snape's room. He was lying prostrate, eyes closed, on his bed. A white gown covered him from shoulder to knee and a soft-looking beige blanket covered his feet.

She silently approached him, unsure of how best to alert him of her presence.

She could not help but flinch at the red scarred flesh she had mistaken for burns along a large part of his exposed self. The snake's poison seemed to have traveled down his arm, because it too was red below his sleeve.

In a somber almost reverent silence, she simply sat in the chair nearest his bed, gazing at him. Thankfully the spell for silent footfall aided her.

Harry had delivered him here.

Mr. Waxley had informed her of the young wizard's arrival, instruction, and deliverance of Snape on a soft floating camp bed. How or when did Harry go back and retrieve him? She had wondered off and on since the revelation. Better yet, why did he never tell anyone of Snape's survival? She could not believe Harry made his decision concerning Snape on anything less than his best judgment. She hated to even begin to recognize yet another secret her dear friend had kept from her.

But then, she was hiding an even greater, more damaging secret herself. From everyone.

Snape opened his eyes, slowly relaxing his head to the side to look at her.

She felt her stomach twist and folded her hands together in her lap.

He seemed thoroughly unsurprised at the sight of her. Severus Snape was always aware of approaching suspects, even if their footsteps were silent. Many years as a paranoid double agent would allow anyone such skill.

His wheezing breath gathered and released in a sigh. What could the girl possibly want?

He was tired and annoyed. But he did not push the alert button on his bed.

Hermione's courage was failing her in the face of his disdain.

Perhaps it would be best for her not to burden him with her problem. She glanced around the room, prolonging her confession. During her musings in bed the night before, she could not help but think of Dumbledore's reiteration of his trust for the man to Harry during their years at Hogwarts. Although she had doubted his belief like all the rest, it had been one true thing the old man had been right about.

Severus Snape could be trusted. And he was intelligent enough to convince even a know-it-all like herself to do what she still felt was right. She knew the burden of guilt would weigh upon her, but it was necessary to kill this evil life growing within. Regardless of its infant nature.

Hermione met his now burning gaze. He was silently demanding she get on with it.

Her small voice filled the room, "I have permission to see you now…sir."

Black eyes narrowed.

Shaking slightly, she sat up straighter, laying a palm across her abdomen

"Remember the bit of trouble I told you about earlier?" She looked at the floor. It was as though the absence of his voice made his gaze that much stronger.

"It's more than being young, knocked up and penniless." She met his eyes again. How best to explain this besides bluntly?

"I think I might be pregnant with Voldemort's baby. Or Voldemort himself."

Thick black eyebrows surged together on the man's forehead. His hands curled up. Disbelief and anger covered his face.

Hermione realized how loony she must have sounded. In a rush, she uttered the tale she had prepared over and over in her head the night before.

She told him everything. About the battle, seeing him die, seeing Voldemort across the grounds, the infection… He began to shake his head, eyes wide. His hand reached over the side of his bed, searching for something on the bedside table. She could hear panic in his throat.

Instead of stopping her speech, she stood, reaching for his hand, begging him to listen to the rest of her tale.

"I'm carrying a baby that must be a Horcrux. I'm certain of it!" She raised her voice.

Suddenly he reared back, jerking his hand away from her own. Horror was written in every line on his face. Clutching his swollen throat, he gurgled, as if choking. But Hermione understood. He was trying to speak.

"Sir…" she backed away from the ugly struggle before her, "I'm sorry."

Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. "I tried to kill it at a clinic, but I couldn't go through with it."

A pregnancy-induced gush of tears slid down her face as she sat in the chair. She covered her face with her hands, feeling like a child, wanting to be strong.

She heard his hand return to tap on the bedside table.

"What should I do?" Her young desperate voice rang out. She looked up at his tense figure, just as a robed medi-witch filled the doorway.

"What in Merlin's name is going on here?!" an angry female voice bellowed as the stiff blonde woman rushed in.

Hermione began to stand, wiping tears from her face, but before she could reassure the woman, the witch grabbed her upper arm, forcefully pushing her toward the door.

Hermione was shocked as she was thrust from the room. The witch took up residence in the doorway, hands on hips.

"I-I have permission to-"

"Ah," the woman interrupted, "so you are the girl from East."

"Yes."

"Then you should know all visitors must sign in." The medi-witch pointed behind her to the large desk.

"I'm sorry. I was not aware. I w-will do so now."

"No I'm afraid you will not," the blonde witch seemed to defuse a bit, regaining control. "For now," she added.

Glancing downward, the medi-witch seemed surprised as she remembered Hermione's condition. "Please forgive me for being so rough. How far along are you?"

Distracted, Hermione glanced down at her abdomen as well. "Seventeen weeks."

"Ms. Goldman, I know it may seem comforting to know someone from the school is here as well," Lydia wondered what comfort the former Professor could possibly be, "but it would not be healthy for my patient for you to come to him upset. We have counselors if you wish to speak to someone."

Lydia leaned forward, gazing kindly into the girl's teary eyes.

"I saw you were upsetting Professor Snape and I cannot approve of you reentering that room unless you mean to visit him in a productive manner."

Hermione blinked at the word "professor."

"You were his student too? Then you understand his demeanor – perhaps he was merely upset at the sight of one of his former Gryffindor brats. But, I must stress to you, it is urgent I speak with him."

Lydia looked doubtful, glancing from the frazzled girl in front of her and back over her shoulder, at the ragged man now looking toward the fake frosted window on the far wall. He seemed to have calmed from the state she found him in when she discovered the girl.

Still, Waxley should never have authorized this to begin with!

"I don't believe it is in his best interest for you to return-"

Hermione felt her frustration mount to a peak. "How do you know what is in his best interest? The man cannot even speak!"

Fierce dark-blue eyes glared directly into her own, "I should think I know more about what this man needs than you. Please leave."

She pointed to the exit at the end of West ward.

Hermione felt her mouth drop open in surprise at the medi-witch's sudden willful turn. But she did not turn to leave. She swallowed slowly.

"I'm sorry if I have offended-"

"You have." Lydia cut her off. She felt blood rush to her cheeks.

Why did this girl rile her up so? Blinking, she began to regulate her breathing. She's just a young pregnant lonely girl, and she's right about his temperament. Heavens, I must look foolish.

Sighing, Lydia realized the brown-haired witch was not going to follow her command. Better to try to explain the situation, than simply demand the young witch leave.

After all, she had direct permission to visit Snape from the executive of the institution.

In a much calmer voice she began again, "I'm sure you are not fully aware of Mr. Snape's situation or the damage done to him during the battle before He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's downfall. Regardless of his somewhat healed wounds, he has suffered a great deal of internal and …" She hesitated before revealing too much personal information, "perhaps psychological damage."

Hermione nodded, glad they were speaking rationally. It appeared she was not banished just yet.

"I noticed he cannot speak," she said.

"Right," the blonde witch agreed, "He cannot physically speak … I'm afraid he might not even if he could."

Hermione felt her eyebrows rise as she watched the medi-witch speak almost to herself. Her eyes seemed troubled. She truly cared for her patient – a somewhat rare trait in medical officials.

"So you must understand," the witch continued, blinking out of her reflective state, "I am positive he is not up for much 'conversation.' As you can see, he can be provoked into anxiety attacks. We wish to avoid them if at all possible."

"Of course," Hermione agreed, trying to appease the medi-witch.

"So," Lydia cleared her throat, finding her conclusion, "I must insist you do not come back for a few days. I will speak to him and fully prepare him for your… visits." She spoke the last word as if she detested the very idea. "Then he can be ready."

Hermione crossed her arms in indecision, but Lydia would not be deterred. Mr. Snape was her patient; she would maintain control of his care.

"If you do not do as I ask, I will be forced to question Mr. Waxley's decision to allow your visitation." Dark-blue eyes hardened.

Once again, Hermione felt as if she were a bumbling young child being scolded. She hated that feeling. It was the exact same feeling Professor Snape had given her on numerous occasions as his student not too long ago.

She was older now. More mature. And better than such treatment. Glaring and flushed from embarrassment, all at the same time, she nodded in understanding – of both the command and the threat.

"I apologize again for the disturbance." She tucked a lock of her fraying hair behind an ear and lifted her chin. "I will return next week."

Spinning on her heel, Hermione walked down the hall. Lydia watched her stiff retreating back, and felt her shoulders slump in relief and despair. Next week was bound to only be a repeat of this encounter unless the gods moved in miraculous ways.

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He was sleeping when she returned to check his heart rate and temperature a few hours later. Lydia hesitated to wake him.

Harsh lines that were not there during her school days had begun to etch their way into his facial features. She had decided, as his primary caregiver, to keep the side of his jaw which still grew hair clean-shaven. It suited him. And for someone who had had so much taken away, at least some of his original appearance could be preserved.

His breath held no wheeze while he slept – thin chest rising and falling at a smooth tempo. His eyes and hands often twitched during sleep. She had noticed the movement during many moments of observation. It was as if some demons never stopped chasing him.

What in the name of Merlin would motivate that girl to seek her cruel ex-professor out?

Especially after she saw the ugly marks left upon him.

Lydia always grew accustomed to the scars left on her patients. Their physical features became so commonplace they no longer horrified her after one or two shifts with them. After a few months, she could usually see past the scars, to read the facial expressions not purely visible. This made her a good medi-witch. She was proud of her intuition when it came to working with troubled souls.

Running her wand over his left shoulder and chest, through the air, she took a reading of his heart-rate. All was well. Next she searched for a temperature reading. Normal.

Lydia held her breath. Wands were marvelous devices for medicine. But a numerical temperature reading would never tell you if a patient had clammy skin, tremors, or tension. Knowing she would finally wake him, she gently laid her palm across his forehead.

Dark eyes shot open. Breath hitched. Nothing could mask the fear and apprehension in his eyes before he recognized her and began to relax. She removed her hand slowly. His skin was dry.

Cracking a soft smile, she turned to leave, writing his stats on the chart. A soft tapping came from the rail of his bed. Looking down she saw his hand making the motion of a writing utensil. Lydia usually kept it tucked within the bedside table next to his bed.

She looked into his abnormally fierce gaze. He had something of urgency to tell her. Perhaps he was going to ask she keep that irritating young witch away from him.

Lydia reached into the drawer for the Muggle pen and pad she used to communicate with him. Although she could easily find more efficient ways to communicate with him, writing promoted usage of his arm and hand muscles.

He painstakingly scrawled his message and turned the pad to face her.

It was nothing like the message she expected to see. It simply said, I need a book.

"A book?" she questioned. Her mind processed the meaning. "To read? A specific text?"

He returned to his writing. Moments later the pad faced her again. Death's Spells and Other Works. My rooms. Hogwarts.

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A/N: There has been a strong response from several of the readers of this fic toward Hermione's selfish and/or immature behavior. I believe Hermione is a young intelligent woman who makes mistakes and selfish decisions like most young adults. Perhaps she will grow and learn through the lessons facing her in this fic.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Please review!