He got up earlier from his respite than usual today. He could admit, as humiliating as he found being forced to nap like a child, it was … refreshing.

Sometimes, he didn't actually sleep. Occasionally, he did. Other times, he just closed his eyes and turned it all off. Let his mind and brain close down for a bit. Some would think after eighteen months in a coma, and then the few months spent in St. Mungo's before coming home, would mean he didn't want or need to turn his mind off. Not true. Even remaining exclusively here at home, just watching the news could be … overwhelming some evenings. He'd lost nearly two years of time, essentially.

And there were times, not that he'd admit this to anyone, but he spent the time going through various potion ingredients and their purposes. Afraid that his mind hadn't been returned to him the way it was when he'd been bitten by Nagini, resulting in the coma. So far, he could find no … lapses in his mind or his memory.

The eighteen missing months aside.

A little early meant that he caught her in a rare inactive, and unaware, moment. So, she must not have been expecting him to get up so soon either. He wasn't sure in the five weeks she'd been coming here that he'd ever seen her sit other than to eat breakfast and lunch with him.

She was seated in his study at the desk, hair having fallen out of the chignon she tried to keep it contained in. Was she ever actually able to keep that hair subdued, he wondered? It was usually kept back and rather neat looking in the mornings upon arrival. Gradually, as the day progressed though, it became more and more untidy.

He found it amusing.

She seemed to find it exasperating.

That, in turn, made it all the more amusing to him (and likely more exasperating to her because she seemed to sense his amusement was at her expense).

Hair aside, she looked nice. Where that thought came from, he had no idea. Yet, she did. She wasn't dressed as a nurse or healer in all white, but it suited her assignment. He knew she was a nurse, so the need for a uniform was unnecessary. She certainly looked … less harried and ravaged as she had when he caught a hurried glimpse of her in the shack.

The desk was neater than he could ever remember it being. As a child, it had been covered with whatever papers his father deemed important. When he took over ownership of the home, he had more or less put his parents' things in stacks, promising to go through them. That had never happened.

Today, it was actually usable. Someone could sit here, look out the window and pay bills with the quill set. Or read by the lamp. The quill set and her wand were the only thing that would make anyone question this being a muggle home.

She had a muggle pencil in between her lips and she was carelessly spinning her wand in her hand, between her fingers like one would a baton. He wondered briefly if her parents had enrolled her in such an activity as a girl. She was raised in such a fashion that baton twirling lessons wouldn't have been unheard of.

He had not been privy to such activities, but had gone to school with some who were. His glimpse of the Evans', who did not attend his school, let him know that many were. He and the few who had fathers like his were the odd ones out not the other way around.

She was still quiet and he'd thoroughly assessed her and the immediate space she occupied. Now, he took a moment to take in the study as a whole.

He hadn't been in here since the war's end, or more appropriately he supposed, since he'd returned home after waking up from his coma. He hadn't felt the need to remind himself of the state of his house. That meant he stuck to the kitchen and living room downstairs, his bedroom and bathroom upstairs, and the cellar when he needed to do something with his hands.

He'd had fourteen years in between Voldemort's first defeat and his return to do something in an effort to make his childhood home his. Liveable. Modern. Homey. Anything.

He had done nothing.

He wasn't destitute, so could have easily afforded to remodel and bring his home into the twenty-first century. He'd deliberately chosen not to as, Merlin knew, he had nothing else to spend his money on. Looking at his study now, today, with this witch sitting at his father's old desk. Some would call it an antique. He would call it nothing more than worn and used. Well, he wondered why he'd chosen not to.

What she must think of him!

How pathetic she had to think he was: pining for a dead woman who'd never loved him in the first place for years, residing in his childhood home to remain close to said dead woman's childhood home, treating that woman's only child with disdain, and generally being a miserable son of a bitch.

Voldemort's defeat, and the end of his spying, had not changed his mood.

She had straightened it up. Things had obviously been organized and put in its proper place. There was a box in a corner that he imagined she'd placed items in as she straightened the room. He couldn't even remember when he'd been in this room last. It looked … nice, and that made him scowl. Why would she do that? Why would she bother? He and his home were beyond help. Didn't she know that?

"Are you looking for a better way to torture me?"

She started a bit, not as severely as he expected she might if she'd been unaware of his presence. So, she was aware of him standing there on some level. She just hadn't expected him to speak to her, as he didn't usually. He certainly didn't initiate conversations with her.

"No, actually, I found this book," she said, closing it a bit, her finger marking her place. She held it up so he could see the cover and title. She gestured to the bookcase where she'd obviously pulled it out from. "There has been an uptick in newborn maladies since the war in babies born to parents who were on the receiving end of the torture curse. I thought maybe there might have been something in here to explain or solve it."

"If you think that it would help with your research then you may take it with you."

Her eyes widened. He'd clearly surprised her with the offer. He recognized the book. It wasn't one he referenced regularly, so her taking it with her was no hardship. Hell, he hadn't referenced any books really since returning. He went through the motions of trying to read, but accomplished very little of actually doing it.

"Are you sure? It looks rather expensive and old."

"Please. I know you are aware of how to treat books."

If there was anyone he knew would treat the book with the care it deserved, it was this witch.

"Oh, thank you, Sir," she said.

He'd have no need for it soon anyway. Any of them, for that matter. He regarded her, and he could see the concern in her eyes. It was easy to read this witch.

Gryffindors.

Was there truly some sort of problem? He never had reason to study offspring of those who'd suffered the cruciatus. Was it just that the women were pregnant while receiving the curse? Could the curse actually affect sperm in some way? He supposed one only had to look at Longbottom's parents to know it wasn't a pleasant one on the body or mind. (His experience first hand made him very acquainted with that fact, too, but he'd never fathered a child for it to be a consideration for him.)

He'd really never had a reason to study children period.

Certainly, he'd provided potions to St. Mungo's and Poppy as well as apothecaries, but those were all standard. He received an order and he filled it. He had no way of knowing what potion was going to whom, or why they were in need of it. He didn't get patient histories with the orders. He didn't know who the patients were either for that matter.

"How many newborns are we talking about?"

He shouldn't ask. He shouldn't care. He shouldn't get involved. He wasn't going to be here much longer.

"Oh, a handful or two, less than a dozen since 1997. There may have been some earlier, but none have been documented. I'm aware the torture curse wasn't only used that last year. So not an overwhelming amount. I've asked if there have been other children, earlier, who displayed the symptoms but I was told no." He saw empathy and concern in her eyes. "I'm not sure I believe them. You know wizards, they prefer to think there's nothing wrong than to acknowledge a pattern. They don't want to think it could be their son or daughter next. And they certainly don't want to admit their child isn't the best and brightest."

"Mm," he said.

He couldn't help but notice the fire in her eyes as she spoke. He'd seen it several times over the years. It was something they were … alike about. Knowledge. Wanting to solve something.

He was, of course, rejoicing today that it wasn't going to end in his having to read two feet of an essay instead of one for a change.

"It's just, I know the babies' histories because I have helped treat some of their parents. They seem fine, overall. Just things that are concerning, like low birth weight. It seems as if they're not breathing as well as they should be immediately after birth. There were a couple that seemed to have a slower time responding after delivery. Muggles call them Apgar scores."

He wasn't familiar with Apgar scores, but he also had never had the need to research anything about after birth care, be it muggle or magical. "Well, as I said if you think it, or any others you come across, might help, then by all means take them."

"I'll return it to you."

"Of course," he said. The idea she would take a book she'd acknowledged was old and expensive and not return it hadn't even occurred to him. Some might do that. Not this witch. "No rush."

Actually, seeing her here bent over one of his books, one that no one else would give even a second thought to, gave him an idea.

He didn't have much to leave anyone, but books, journals, brainstorming notes, and papers were things he felt some loss at the thought of just being dumped in the rubbish bin by whoever went through his house after his death. The only person he could think of who'd actually care about them was dead.

Except this witch.

She would likely scour through them, and give him posthumous credit for any discoveries made. Even if no one knew the idea came from his notes.

He would get a message to his solicitor to have his paperwork updated to reflect that his home, and everything in it, should go to her. She'd know what was deserving of the rubbish bin.

And when finished sorting through his belongings, she could burn the damned house down for all that he cared. It should have been exorcized of its demons long ago.

"Are you ready for lunch then, Sir?"

"Actually, lunch can wait," he said, moving further into the study to seat himself on the chair beside the desk. He rested his forearm atop his cane, regarding her. "I have a question for you."

"Okay," she said.

She was looking puzzled. It wasn't a look he saw often from this watch, but he couldn't blame her for feeling that way now. Five weeks in, he hadn't said much more than the obligatory words necessary in answer to her questions related to his therapy. If he gave her that much.

"Why are you here?"

"I just told you," she said, gesturing to the book.

"Don't pretend to be dense. You know I'm not asking what you're doing in this room, Healer Granger. To be to the point, though. Why are you my healer? I'm sure there are other assignments that would be more suitable to you."

With her muggle knowledge of medicine she could integrate many things that magical people just wouldn't think about.

She set the book on her lap then, resting her hands on top of it after closing it. He smiled a bit at the makeshift bookmark marking her spot. She wouldn't dare dogear a page. She regarded him. She didn't flinch or look away. She didn't appear scared or uncertain, as if she thought he'd use legilimency on her without permission. That was a look he knew very well by now. She was certainly assessing him, just as he had been her the past weeks she'd been here.

"Am I dissatisfactory somehow, Sir?"

Well, no.

"I wouldn't say that…"

In fact, unlike the parade of healers before her, he found very little to complain about. Who would have thought he'd be saying that about this witch?

She was prompt. She kept to herself most of the time. She went above and beyond. She didn't fawn over him. (The second - or maybe it was the third - had some sort of idol worship going on with him that made him exceedingly uncomfortable.) Of course he couldn't - wouldn't - tell her that! He knew he needed the assistance as part of his way to keep the Minister for Magic unaware he had anything up his sleeve. The therapy itself was useless, as he had no plans on seeing 2001, but he went along with it so as not to arouse suspicion. She would report his lack of cooperativeness to Kingsley, the two were friends from the glimpses of her one-sided conversations he paid close attention to. If Kingsley thought he was being surly. Well, that could result in him being hospitalized again. And then he wouldn't be able to go through with his plan.

"Then does it matter why I'm here?"

Well, put like that. No. It didn't really matter. It just seemed like such a waste of her mind. There had to be cases at St. Mungo's that would actually challenge that mind of hers, like these babies, instead of putting him through the daily exercises she did. He could do them on his own, really. She knew that, too. She was here to ensure they were actually done.

"I suppose not. I just can't help but think a witch of your capabilities…"

"Yes, well, if you must know, there have been rumours abound about you, and your home. They range from you being a vampire to you having dead bodies in your cellar. There are various variations of similar unseemly things. More than one healer dismissed by you has gone to the Daily Prophet with some sad tale to weave about your disposition and wrongdoings on your part that have been swept under the proverbial carpet. I didn't like the idea of you being treated in that fashion, or all of our hard work getting you off on any charges being undone, by a spurned or vengeful healer. Frankly, Sir, you don't deserve it. I knew I could put up with your surliness. So I volunteered."

He watched her for a moment for some sign of her statement being a joke. She didn't flinch or make any movements to indicate deceit. Coma for eighteen months or not, he could still read people.

Evidently it was not, because he saw no indication that she was being anything but serious. He did not read the Daily Prophet . He did not open anything obviously magical that came via the post and, other than the healers, did not engage with the magical world one iota.

He nodded simply then.

"Thank you," he said finally.

What else was there to say?

He valued his privacy, which was the reason that the idea of a healer having to aid him was so bothersome. He didn't like the idea of someone poking around his home. His business. His body. It was bad enough that people saw the state of him when he was in a coma. At least he was unaware. And ultimately, letting do these things, they would be getting a glimpse into his mind. It was far too intimate for his preferences. It didn't help that the ones sent previously had been bordering on incompetent.

Granger pushed him.

Every day.

She wasn't a shrew about it. He'd say he'd had enough and she'd say "just two more".

That was what he had needed all along, but hadn't gotten until recently. If he had gotten it right away, maybe he'd be taking a different path than the one he was going on now. He couldn't say. It really didn't matter. It was far too late. He was invested now, and he would see it to completion. There was no place for the likes of Severus Snape in a post-Voldemort world. He knew this all along.

"Are you ready for lunch then?" she asked, seeming ready to move on to another subject, or at least get off of this one. He suspected that there was more, something she was maybe not telling him as to why she was working with him, but it really didn't matter.

She was, in fact, competent, and his home had never been as neat in his memory as it was now. She had done the straightening while he napped, he presumed, because he would have scolded her for her impertinence otherwise. He had to admit, it looked better.

"Of course," he said.

She walked with him down the stairs. Her arm nearest him at the ready in case he lost his footing. He went to the living room and she headed to the kitchen. Lunch was no gourmet affair, but he couldn't really complain. It saved him from having to think about doing it himself, and proper nourishment was essential to keep his strength up for what he wanted to do.

Eventually, he joined her in the kitchen when lunch was ready.

"I get the impression from your rambling attempts at small talk that you are sharing living space with others? Witches, I presume?"

"Oh, yes," she said when she joined him at the table.

His question clearly startled her. She looked at him for a long moment before continuing. He had to admit, he was somewhat curious. He rarely responded to her ramblings, but he had no choice but to retain information. And, well, he could admit if she had chosen this assignment to slow the spread of gossip about him, then he could actually talk with the witch once in a while.

Albus always told him that it wasn't painful to be kind. Severus had not found this to be true to this point, but there was a first time for everything.

"I started out staying with Harry at Sir… Grimmauld Place, but I couldn't stand being in that house."

"Understandable."

He had never liked that house. Ever. He understood Dumbledore's using it for Order business, but frankly he'd rather live here than there.

"Eventually, three of us in training who got along decently enough went in on a flat together. Renting. I haven't looked elsewhere because it works. I'm rarely there, obviously."

"Obviously?" What was obvious about that?

"Well, I'm here every day," she said with a soft huff, as if that should have, in fact, been obvious.

He glanced at her left hand, noticing for the first time that it was devoid of the accoutrement that represented betrothal or marriage. That, coupled with the fact she was Healer Granger, led him to believe she was not married. Her admitting she lived in a flat with other female healers pointed to that as well.

Yet.

What happened with Weasley? It was pretty much a well-assumed given by most of the Hogwarts staff that those two would end up together.

Severus found those rumours sad, truthfully. Not that he cared, but she could do so much better. He may have been tough on her in class, but it wasn't out of hatred (which she seemed to have figured out by now). It was part of his work as a spy for one, but also he wanted her to think for herself. To use her mind. She clearly had a brilliant one.

And, okay, she was a bit bothersome and he had little time for those kinds of people who told him what he already knew.

"And evenings?"

She usually left by half past six, so he had evenings to do as he pleased. Not that he had anything he wanted to do. He could still barely walk around his house with the cane. He wasn't going to be going out anywhere.

"Oh, I usually stop at Harry and Ginny's for dinner after I leave here and then go home."

"So you still spend time at the Black House?"

"Yes, it's not so bad for an hour or two, but when I spent days there it made my skin crawl. I found my nightmares after … everything … were worse there."

He nodded in understanding. He doubted there was anyone who'd dealt with the war who didn't experience nightmares. From things he'd heard after he'd come out of his coma, the horcruxes they'd handled were truly foul. He also saw firsthand what the ring had done to Albus.

"Potter and the female Weasley only?"

"Oh, yes," she said. Her eyes flicked to him, betraying her surprise at his continued attempt at conversation. "I assume you're asking about Ron. We broke up not too long after the war ended. If you could even consider what we had a relationship. A kiss and months living on the run don't really seem like one to me," she shrugged. "We just weren't compatible without the war in play. I wanted to get my wits about me, with a career and the post-war magical world, before I committed to marriage and children."

She closed her mouth then, blushing profusely. What was that about? She hadn't said anything warranting embarrassment.

"What?" he prompted.

"I certainly don't want to be a stay at home mum with several children."

Hmm. Okay, somewhat embarrassing maybe, but not really. She deserved so much better than that and, as he was unmarried with no children, she had to know he wasn't going to be offended. Or find her lacking for not wanting to be the next Molly Weasley.

"May I ask what about Ronald Weasley made you think that he wouldn't expect precisely that from a wife?"

She sighed. He'd clearly touched on a sore subject. "I assumed he'd be open to discussions."

"He wasn't?"

He was not surprised. There was nothing about that wizard that suggested to Severus that he'd expect no less than exactly that. He wanted his mother, someone who he could bully. Who would be a pushover. He wasn't worthy of someone with Miss Granger's potential.

"Not really. He didn't understand why I felt the need to do more than the suggested work. He thought, I assume, that my drive to learn would dwindle once we were done with school. I needed time to figure myself out. I wasn't the same witch who developed feelings for him. I'll likely never be that witch again, and I realized we just weren't going to work."

He nodded slightly. He realized that there were some parallels between her and Weasley and his friendship with Lily.

External circumstances played a huge role in things.

Voldemort played a huge role in things.

His financial background also played a huge role in things. No doubt Weasley's would have, too. Eventually.

He'd expected to die at the end of it and be able to see and talk to his friend, the only person he'd ever loved, again. He hoped that by then, seeing what he had done, that she would forgive him and at least speak to him again.

As with everything else in his life, his plans not to see his thirty-ninth birthday went to hell in a handbasket. And here he was, forty. And a half. Still sitting here eating lunch in his pathetic childhood home.

A lunch prepared for him by a former student.

"There hasn't been anyone serious since. Contrary to what people like Ginny think, my life is okay. My education is far more important to me than a relationship."

"Your education should be your priority."

"Thank you for listening."

"Your conversation is tolerable."

Her lips curled up into the hint of a smile and she shook her head. It was an odd response. People didn't generally … smile at him. "Thank you. Your listening skills are tolerable as well."

"Mm," he said. He probably smirked in return, just a little, at her using his words back at him.

"I was thinking, would you be up for a walk in the backyard this afternoon? I'd make it worth your while?"

He glanced sharply at her. Was she flirting with him? Impossible. Whatever did she mean?

"Oh?" And why did that response sound almost … flirtatious, too? Merlin!

"Yes," she said, tapping her fingertip on the table. Her nails were nicely kempt he noticed, not for the first time. Trimmed so as not to be too long, but filed and polished in something light and earthy. "For every minute spent outdoors I'll shave a minute off of our exercises when we get back inside."

He arched a brow at her, certain it was a trap, and yet he really couldn't see one. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been outside. Other than when they transported him home.

"Fine," he said succinctly.

"Great!"

She seemed entirely too … proud of herself. What was she up to? He really couldn't see any harm, any potential trap, in going to the backyard. It was his backyard after all!

She set about washing the lunch dishes. He watched as she did. She was what most would call petite. On the short side, and thin. Not unhealthily so. Fit with defined arm muscles from what he saw, which made him think she did something to keep herself that way. Her hair, per usual, was escaping its chignon. The curls brushed her back, falling about midway. She was, he had to admit, an attractive woman. Weasley was a fool for letting a witch like her go. He should have thanked the lucky stars someone as smart and attractive gave him the time of day.

She was nothing like his mother. He'd seen pictures of his mum when she was this age. She was sullen and serious even then. The apple didn't fall too far from the tree, he supposed. Most would say he was the same way.

He wasn't sure where the comparison came from between this witch and his mum, other than she was the only other woman he knew that ever washed dishes in this house. She was the only woman, aside from his mother, who'd spent any amount of actual time here. It was odd to think. In such a short time she already knew her way around. Not that the house and the belongings in it were that vast.

Once they were drying she turned to face him. She seemed surprised he was still there. Maybe she was. Brown eyes, not as dark as his, so they were a bit easier to read than his were, told him she wasn't displeased that he was.

"Would you like help with your shoes, Sir?"

"I am not an invalid, Granger."

"Of course you aren't. I wasn't implying that you are. I have never treated you as if I think you are either. I know you obviously get around when I'm not here. I'm merely asking if you want my assistance now. And it's Healer Granger, or Hermione if you are so inclined."

He nodded, lips tightening as he regarded her. She was right. She'd treated him with respect, and always as if he could do what she was asking.

"You may call me Severus then. I'm no longer your professor and, as I am under your care, it seems odd to insist you call me Sir."

"Well, then Severus. Would you like help with your shoes?"

"No," he said simply.

She busied herself, straightening up the kitchen some more, humming that same tune she always did as he slid his shoes on.

"I am ready," he said finally when she obviously was making no effort to rush him.

It was one of the things he liked about her. Yes, she did her job when it was time for his exercises and therapy sessions. However, otherwise, she let him do things at his own pace and in his own time.

"Great," she said.

She wrung out the cloth she'd been using and draped it over the faucet before wiping her hands on the towel at the stove there for that purpose. He couldn't recall seeing it before, but presumed she found it in a drawer somewhere. He hadn't gone through any of his mother's things in years.

She walked to him then, offering him her arm. He took it hesitantly. He hated appearing … weak, but could admit stairs, even with the cane, were trying. So, he accepted the arm. She walked with him, and he took a deep breath when they'd gotten outside. The fresh air was welcome, but that wasn't all.

"You did this?" he asked.

"I did," she said, nibbling at her lower lip he noticed.

So she obviously wasn't sure whether he'd be pleased or not. Yet, she'd done it anyway.

She had taken the gardens he'd had previously, and tended to them so they were … alive again. Fresh soil, and some obviously purchased potted flowers to make up for those that hadn't grown in yet. It had been years since he'd done anything with the area back here, even before Voldemort's return. Why bother doing something no one but he was going to see? And he didn't make a habit of sitting out in his backyard by himself.

It was … colourful.

"I thought maybe you might like to get your hands dirty a bit. There's plenty to do yet. Or if that doesn't appeal to you today, you can just sit and watch."

"I see what you're doing, Hermione," he said.

"Oh?"

"I'll still be using my muscles…"

"Yes, well, there is that, but I really did think that you might enjoy a day out in the sunshine. Get some Vitamin D soaking into your skin, yeah? And your hands in the earth. It's healthy and, yes therapeutic."

"Mm," he said, taking in the yard. He truly couldn't remember it looking this … cared for.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why what?"

He gestured to the flowerbeds.

"Well, you obviously have more than enough space back here, and I thought it might help you to see something growing. You know, there's more to getting you healthy than just working your muscles, Severus."

He snorted, but knew she was likely right.

If he cared.

He didn't care.

He couldn't care.

He was just biding his time anymore.

"That's not what you are paid for."

"You aren't paying me. So, let me determine what my job entails, Severus, yeah? Healing takes all forms."

He took a seat at the small patio table and chair set he had out here. It could seat four, but not comfortably. He had sat here with his mum more than once. It had seen better days, as with everything at the house, but she'd even made an effort to clean them up. When had she done all this? How hadn't he noticed? Did she sit out here?

And why didn't it bother him?

He closed his eyes, settling his arms against the arms of the chair and sighed softly as his hands gripped a little tighter than necessary. He felt the sun warm his face and head. There was that humming again. It was soft, as if she didn't want to disturb him, but couldn't stop herself from doing it either. He felt himself relax. His grip was no longer tight on the arms of the chair. His mind drifted as he regarded the clouds in the sky. The sun was out enough that it was a more than satisfactory day.

He opened his eyes periodically, watching as she worked in the dirt. She didn't use magic for this task either, he noticed. He liked doing his gardening the muggle way, too.

He wondered if Lily would have preferred gardening the muggle way. Or would she have used magic? He wasn't sure. There were so many things they never got the opportunity to talk about.

Soon, his potion would be done and he'd be able to, hopefully, see and talk to her one last time. He just wanted one final moment with his true love, and he would then die a happy man.

His soul could be taken wherever it needed to go. He'd done abominable things, so had little hope of being accepted into muggle heaven. He'd accepted that fact, and expected years of pain and suffering to offset his misdeeds. One last conversation with her would make any suffering he had coming worthwhile.

What other option was there? He'd been responsible for the death of the only person who'd ever been his friend.

He must have dozed off, or really been caught up in his thoughts, because he felt rather than heard her take a seat at the table near him.

"I brought us some lemonade," she said.

He opened his eyes, realizing that she looked rather fetching sitting there with residuals from digging in the dirt on her cheeks and hands. Her hair was a hopeless cause by now, but even that was … nice.

"Thank you," he said.

"Thank you for not yelling at me."

"Yet you did it anyway."

"I needed something to do with the hours I spend here."

"Mm," he said.

He'd honestly expected her to be under foot while she was here when she showed up on his doorstep the first time. She rarely was, unless it was time for their exercises. Otherwise, she stayed out of his way. It was nice to hear the sounds of someone puttering around in his house. It had been years since those sounds were here, and prior to recently, they had always been surrounded by pain and despair. Anger and fear.

Far better than when Pettigrew was his houseguest, for certain. Then he wasn't sure that was a fair comparison. To compare anyone to that rat.

He had no doubt that while he was napping and doing his own exercises that she didn't closely monitor, she was going through his house to ensure there were no contraptions that could be used for killing himself.

He knew she checked his person. She was subtle about it, but he knew how to tell what she was looking for, for signs of self-harm or anything indicating he'd been injecting himself or anything. She was … good. If he didn't know what to look for himself, he may have missed it. He wondered who she had known that had been a drug user, because those likely weren't things St. Mungo's taught.

The great thing about being a potioner, and her seemingly being unaware of his very private lab in the basement, they wouldn't know he was up to something until it was too late. (Anyone who really took in the basement would realize there was less space than there should be, but she didn't spend time down there. Prior to the nurses who had to inspect it, he'd never allowed anyone to go down there.)

He already had it planned out. He would owl St. Mungo's asking for a replacement for Granger, stating that he would make do until one could be found. That would buy him a day or two and would mean, presumably anyway, someone who didn't seem to care about him would be the one to find him.

And this witch did seem to care. He had no idea why. He, in fact, spent a good amount of evenings the past five weeks when he should have been reading going over the reason for her doing the things she did: feeding him, cleaning, and now gardening. And seemingly caring about his reputation, that he got a healer who wouldn't spread gossip about him. All these things pointed to someone who cared.

Why?

He'd been nothing but cruel to her on his best day.

He didn't ask because he really didn't want to know the answer. She had a cruel streak in her, too. When she first appeared, he'd almost wondered if she was there to finish what Nagini hadn't. He wouldn't blame her. Being a spy was a good protect-all for his behaviour over the years, but he wasn't a pleasant person to begin with. He never had been. He'd never learned how to be. Neither of his parents were positive or warm people.

Eventually, they returned indoors and she was true to her word. Their exercises for that afternoon were shortened by the amount of minutes he'd spent outside.

And she had been right. The fresh air and sunshine had done him good. He could feel it.

If only it truly mattered.

He would make her think she was making a difference. He could at least do that much for her at this point.

It wasn't her fault, after all. She was doing the best that she could with what she was given. She was just given an impossible patient and an impossible task.

A patient who had lost hope so long ago and was quite simply beyond help. And who was set on finishing what should have been done in the shack two years ago.

Story ©Susan Falk/APCKRFAN/PhantomRoses.com