She saw the first rays of the sunshine through the open window. Golden, they highlighted the swirling motes of dust that danced through the morning air, making them sparkle and shimmer like poured glitter. It was still cold in the room, and she pulled her light-knit jumper tighter to conserve body warmth. She couldn't shut the window, not with these fumes. God only knew what sort of nasty neurotoxins and corrosive chemicals they contained. And Hermione was rather more willing to face the prospect of potential, if unlikely, frostbite than death by toxic smoke inhalation. She thought that she might like to die with her lungs and inner vital organs intact, thank you very much.
Besides, fresh air was supposed to be good for the concentration. And her competent, if unwilling, pupil was definitely in need of that – if his rather poor attempts at potion making were anything to go by.
They'd spent the last two hours working slowly through the first-year Potions text-book, helpfully provided by the Ministry. And nothing. No recall, just a bloody great big mess on the centre of her lovely, clean, marble worktop. She wasn't quite sure how he had managed it, but she was almost certain that you couldn't create a powerful poison, complete with deadly steam, from a Boil Cure Potion using only standard ingredients. However, Severus always had been able to achieve the impossible, so, she supposed, she shouldn't have been all that surprised.
"No, no, no," she said, sighing in frustration. "Can't you read? The porcupine quills must be added after the cauldron has been taken off the heat. And does it even say lacewings?"
Severus slammed his fist into the table in an uncharacteristically open display of frustration.
"I'm sorry. I can't help it if I don't remember. Something told me to add them."
"And I suppose that something conveniently forgot to tell you how, or when?"
He nodded, his face set in a scowl. Hermione flicked her wand over at the mess, muttering Evanesco under her breath. It disappeared, but the fumes remained, slowly curling out of the window. No fancy fume cupboards for them. No, they had to make do with the window, strategic ducking and alcohol soaked face masks, whatever environmental damage caused becoming unavoidable.
"This is the fourth time. Is nothing starting to come back?"
Severus leant against the table, closing his eyes. He looked wearier than she had ever seen him, age and worry-lines etched deeply onto his face. It made him look far older than his forty-five years, as though he were on the wrong side of fifty. Silvery strands, though not numerous yet, were noticeable amongst the black locks. Premature ageing brought on by stress. Hermione often found that those brought back aged far quicker than normal, but she'd never experienced it firsthand. It was disconcerting, to say the least. And she was beginning to understand why the long-term survival rate was so low. Unravelling DNA. Loss in tissue elasticity. Time wars against the very fabric of space. He was a wrong thing, and it takes more energy to be wrong than right.
"No."
Hermione began to set up the apparatus again, choosing a copper-lined cauldron this time, instead of the gold. Though the copper was far too reactive for anything particularly volatile, she thought that perhaps the conductivity of the metal would help to balance the heat distribution. Besides, a little copper salt was good for the potion, or so her sources said.
"But you said you had an inkling before. When you put the lacewings in."
"I was wrong. And I wouldn't be wrong if I remembered."
He was right on that account.
"Perhaps we should try something different. You've been working on that potion for days." She flicked through the open textbook that lay on the desk, the thick pages still stained with remnants of his other botched attempts. "How about a Forgetfulness Potion?"
Severus grunted in reply, twisting the book before him. He squinted as he read the list of ingredients, his hands already searching for them amongst his kit.
It wasn't a complicated potion. Hermione remembered it being on the final exam in her first year. Maybe that would jog his memory. She didn't imagine that he spent any less than a day devising his end-of-year tests, making each one more horrible and demanding than the last. And if this didn't help, she wasn't sure what would. He was too inexperienced, if that was the word, to try anything more complicated.
She shivered as she watched him work. It was mesmerising. His long fingers grasped the knife, and he sliced down with a chef's precision, cleaving the tiny ginger root in two. He added it into the cauldron with a flourish, his obvious skill for the work only hampered by his inability to remember. Every minute or so, he would take a glance at the book, checking and double-checking the steps. Hermione felt a little like an intruder, watching his memories in a pensive. Although he was old and greying, it was almost as if he were twelve again, encountering the wonders of a cauldron for the first time. She caught a glimpse of what it must have been like all those years ago, back when Sirius, Harry's Dad and poor Professor Lupin were alive.
They were all gone now, though. The Marauders. All consigned to the gate before their time. She wondered, sometimes, if they too should have been given a second chance at life. If it was a little unfair only to raise those who were required, rather than those who were desired. Who did Severus have to welcome him back to the world? The cold arms of the Ministry with its sterile institutionalism. Who wanted him back? The Ministry, again, she found was the answer, for she could think of no one else who wasn't lying six-feet under. But who really cared? She was certain that the Ministry didn't. The Ministry cared for no-one these days, a state after power.
Me. I care.
Hermione buried that thought deep, along with her dreams, her nightmares that seemed to be arriving with alarming frequency.
For the sixth day in a row, she'd woken in a cold sweat. This time she'd dreamed of blood and pain, caught in the web of a killer. He seemed to be coming ever closer to his goal, each dream becoming more vibrant. More real.
"Damn!"
There was a bang as the potion blew, splattering both the walls and her person with a thick green goo. She scraped it out of her eyes, dry heaving as the stench of hydrogen sulphide met her nostrils.
"I am terribly sorry, Hermione."
She waved him away, biting into another piece of her toasted sandwich. It wasn't much of a tea, but after a day of explosions and bad smells, she didn't think she could manage much else. Her hair dripped from what had to have been the third shower that day, and she was too tired to bother spelling it dry. It was wetting her shirt, leaving tear-like trails down her back and front.
"It's fine, Severus," she said, through a mouthful of melted cheese and tomato. "Honestly."
He was hovering by her shoulder, trying to be of some use. He'd polished off his two sandwiches ten minutes before and was waiting to clear her plate away. Washing up was, apparently, the price he offered for forgiveness.
"But I was so sure that I was right."
She handed him the plate. "It's okay. Everyone has to learn sometime. And you're getting better. There were fewer accidents this afternoon than yesterday."
Her fingers brushed his, and he drew back as though burned. Striving to keep his countenance as impassive as possible, he turned towards the sink, plunging his hands, along with the plate, into the foamy water. He scrubbed with a vicious vigour, as though the dirt was offensive.
"Severus?" she said.
There was no response, so she repeated herself.
"What?" His tone was a little waspish.
"Are you alright?"
There was a clunk as he dropped the plate, the nature of the water preventing it from smashing against the bottom of the sink. His head fell forward, the ends of his hair just brushing against the foam.
"No."
It came out as more of a sigh. Hermione's eyebrows rose in surprise. She'd expected something more explosive. Not the defeated-sounding response he had provided.
"Do you want to talk about it?" It was a stupid thing to say, she knew. But she could think of nothing else.
"No, but you're going to wrestle an answer from me anyway, no doubt."
Hermione rose from her seat.
"Come on. Leave the washing up. The kitchen really isn't the place."
Severus did as he was told, following her out through the doorway and into the living room. Hermione flicked on the light, a comforting yellow glow filling the austere-looking room, making it slightly more bearable. She sat down upon the sofa, motioning for him to follow suit. He chose the chair.
Unsure of how to begin, Hermione looked down at her clasped hands, as though she could divine the answers from her intertwined fingers. No luck there, however. She was on her own.
"Is this because you can't do it?"
Oh, smooth, Hermione. And for my next trick, I shall dig my own hole, sans shovel.
He scowled at her.
"What do you think?"
Hermione blushed at his sharp retort, her pale cheeks turning an unflattering shade of red.
"Look, you can't expect everything just to fall into place straight away. These things take time."
"And you would know that from personal experience, I suppose," he said, sarcasm dripping from his words.
"It is my job to know. Did you really think you were the first I brought back?"
"No." He turned his head slightly, his dark eyes locking with hers. "But I doubt you've had to nurse all your other patients back to health."
She broke eye contact, looking sheepishly down at her fingers. He was right. He was the first and the only.
"How do you know if this is the normal procedure?"
"I do keep check on them, you know. I don't just leave them to rot in the ICU."
"Yes, but how many have you actually followed? Do you really know how long it took for them to remember?" He folded his arms. "How do you know that I'm not broken?"
Hermione's head snapped up. "Severus, please. You shouldn't say things like that."
His eyes held a measure of defiance, as though he were rejecting both the world and her ideas. Like a petulant child, angry as his father told him, once again, that he was wrong. That he was a failure.
"Why ever not? For all you know, I could be right."
"I don't make mistakes." Her tone held an air of finality.
"You are human. Humans are fallible."
"Not in this case. I can't afford to be."
Severus blinked slowly, smiling as though contemplating an unfunny joke.
"You know, I'm so terrified of not remembering, I've never stopped to think what it must be like for you. Do you think me selfish?"
"There's nothing to think about. I'm doing my job."
"But what about your family? Your friends? Surely being locked up in here with an old man like me isn't top on your agenda."
Hermione gave him a cynical smile. "Well, it just about beats anything else I have going on."
"Surely your husband must miss you."
Hermione froze.
How does he know? Hardly anyone knows. Not now.
Her words echoed her thoughts. "How do you know that?"
Severus shrugged, his expression oddly collected. It was as if he didn't know how big of a bombshell he'd dropped.
"Your details were on my chart at the ICU. They said Weasley. But you said your name was Granger. I assumed you were married. Is that not the case?"
"Not anymore," she muttered, her gaze dropping to her hands.
"Divorced?"
"Widowed."
"I'm sorry," he said, for lack of anything else to say.
Hermione still didn't meet his gaze. She merely grunted in reply. It was an old hurt, a little stab of guilt deep in her stomach. The wound was part of her now. And she'd carry it until the day she died, deserving the pain it brought.
Severus was silent for a long time, and Hermione, absorbed in her thoughts, had almost forgotten he was there. She jumped when he spoke.
"Do you mind if I ask how?"
"He was murdered," she said, her voice monotonous. "I came home one evening to find him dead, his throat slashed."
"Do you know who did it?"
"No."
Yes.
"I'm sorry," he repeated.
"Why? You haven't done anything wrong."
Hermione rose to her feet and began to fuss with the cushions. She felt uncomfortable: her soul bared, even though she hadn't really said anything at all. Plenty of people were murdered. It wasn't special in that respect. Besides, she hadn't told him why. To him, she was just another widow, angry at some nameless, faceless killer. Only she knew different.
"Is that why you work for the Ministry? Doing this?"
Hermione let out a bark of laughter, the sound managing to escape her tightened lips. It was a bitter sound, left without humour. She turned to face him, her arms crossed.
"No. It was the only job I was offered."
"Because you're a widow?"
"Because of a war."
Severus' eyes went wide. Hermione silently cursed herself. He didn't remember the war, and she had the sneaking suspicion that he shouldn't be allowed to remember it, either. It was dangerous information for a man with a past like his. Tainted minds should not be given food for thought.
But it was too late now. She had to salvage what she could.
"There was a war between the Ministry and a band of Rebels." The Death Eaters. "They took over the schools, and the shops and the people, killing those who were wrong. Who were of bad blood, like me. And the Ministry fought back, but for power and glory instead of good. Almost as many died at their hands as at the hands of the Rebels. Sacrifices for a 'noble' cause, they said."
"And you fought for the Ministry, I take it? Bound by work and so forth."
"I fought for neither, but, instead, for a smaller group, intent on crushing the Rebels. Which meant we worked alongside the Ministry, despite its flaws, and were told to have faith in humanity. That good would win.
"Everything was about even until we were betrayed. There was a turncoat in our ranks, and he killed our leader." She sighed. "I don't think I've ever hated anyone that much before. I felt sick. I'd trusted him, even when the others hadn't."
Severus looked pensive, as though struggling to remember something he couldn't quite grasp. For a moment, Hermione feared he'd begun to remember who he was, why he died. There was no telling what he would do. His mental stability had been tenuous at best, even before his resurrection.
"Didn't you give him a chance to explain himself? A man does not switch sides without good reason."
"No. I couldn't. He was a murderer."
Her gaze flicked over to the fireplace, following the dance of the orange flames that licked the grate with hot tongues. Her voice had become little more than a whisper, as though she was afraid to utter her thoughts, her sins, any louder.
"I only found out later why he did it. He died shortly before the end of the war. I never got the chance to say I was sorry."
It was true. She didn't. It was yet another helping of guilt on her already full plate. And praying forgiveness from a man who couldn't remember didn't seem right.
"What happened? Did you lose?"
"We fought harder after that, intent on bringing the Rebels, and the turncoat, down. But, at the end, when the Ministry triumphed, little distinction was made between us and the Rebels. We were incarcerated, and questioned. When we were finally released, we were pushed into Ministry jobs. I was useful. So I ended up here."
"But you helped them." His voice was filled with incredulity.
"It doesn't matter. We fought them in the beginning and were punished for our crime."
Severus' face became taught, the lines around his nose and cheeks deepening further. His mouth was pressed into a thin, pink line. It was as though he were afraid to ask his next question.
"Did I fight?"
Hermione closed her eyes, fearing he'd see the lie in her gaze.
"No."
