16 November 1998.

Death Eaters don't fight with Stupefy, Hermione. Death Eaters don't fight with Stupefy, Hermione. Death Eaters – STOP.

She covered her ears with her hands and shut her eyes against the world. Glass got caught in her hair, and for the first time she felt the sting of the cuts in her hands and the throb of the bruise that had already risen on her shin. When she opened her eyes again, her breath died in her throat as she surveyed the damage she had wrought to her room.

She had dented her walls and torn the cover off of 1,000 Magical Herbs and Fungi - she felt its abuse pulse deep in her heart. The weight bar had scratched her dresser, though the crowning jewel was the remnants of her mirror and the glass-shard graveyard that had become her room.

She limped to her nightstand and with a soft Reparo, she mended the book first, and then her dresser. One at a time, she restored her walls, but not even magic could resurrect her mirror, and she didn't lament the loss. She Vanished the splintered wood and glass fragment and then turned away. She left the damage it had done to her skin. When she hobbled across her room to retrieve the vial of mahogany liquid instead of simply Summoning it to her, she took a small comfort in the thought of serving penance through the pain. She eyed the vial dubiously and lifted it in a sardonic salute, putting her life in the hands of Wizarding science and the talents of the potion's maker.

As soon as the cinnamon burned her tongue and set fire to her throat, she understood. The pain was shocking, really. Her vision had blurred around the edges and she desperately wished she had read more, had understood more, had questioned more. He hadn't told her that she needed to be lying down in the position of her choice, because nearly instantaneously, choice was taken from her. He had said extremely painful, and he'd said that putting a week's worth of healing into a weekend would put wizards into a coma. He hadn't told her that delaying her body's healing just one day would make her wish for a coma.

She'd been sitting on her bed when the cinnamon touched her tongue. The muscles in her legs had failed and she'd lost her brace against the floor. She collapsed, and the strength in her arms wasn't enough to lift her back to the bed. Her muscles stretched and tore and healed, stronger than before, and through it all she screamed color instead of sound.

19 November 1998.

She didn't sleep. Through the night, she watched the passage of time, marked by unobtrusive red numbers that hovered above her wand. She counted minutes like she counted thunder and flashes of lightning, and she tried to keep the numbers separate in her head because it was something to think about that did not involve pain. As the numbers neared 4:00, she felt the tremors in her muscles slow in frequency and dull in pain. By 4:18, she felt bold enough to attempt movement, and she lifted herself to a sitting position on the floor. 4:28 found her on the front porch steps, stretching similarly to how Harry had shown her the day (only one day?) before, and marveling at the way her body moved. She felt… more limber, stronger even – though she attribute this to the placebo effect, because truly, one day's efforts, even through magic, surely couldn't have such an immediate effect. It didn't matter though, because at precisely 4:30, Severus Snape opened the front door and shut it, much more gently than not.

"Professor, I want to apologize. I acted rashly, immaturely, and there is no excuse for my actions. I'm sorry and itwon'thappenagain."

Her words ran together like the puddles on the ground and he sneered, and she dropped her gaze, and she scraped a fingernail against the cuticle of her thumb.

"I believe we discussed this last night, though it is good to know your verdict hasn't changed. Roll your pant leg to the knee – no, the other one."

She was puzzled, but she drew the material up to reveal the bruise on her shin. It was a magnificent showcase of deep purple and magenta, and the colors could have been beautiful were they painted on a canvas other than her skin. He tapped the bruise with more force than was strictly necessary, and she flinched and yelped as it healed, and left a rush of anger in its wake.

"Atone for your sins in another way. This will only serve to hinder your progress, and waste my time. Come."

She ground her teeth but she followed him quietly, preferring more to preserve her breath than to defend her dignity. In the cadence of footfalls and measured breaths, she let her mind go, and she wondered how he had known, not only that she had left the bruise, but why she chose to leave it. There had been no touch of Legilimency. The revelation that he might have known, because he might have understood, might have been there once softened her.

"DOWN!" Broke her thoughts and she dropped. It wasn't fast enough, and a Stinging Jinx caught her in the shoulder. As she rolled slowly to her feet, a second caught her in the thigh, and she shrieked and dove to her left, casting a shield as she hit the ground. His third hit the shield, and he lowered his wand. Her feelings of solidarity were already gone, lost in the same way dreams fade away in between the moments of sleep and waking.

"Hiding, Miss Granger? Do tell me where the fun is in that?" He cast a Hiccupping Hex and she cast Protego, and she glared because she saw mirth in the gleam of his eyes.

"I apologized for my – PROTEGO! – actions last night, and promised not to – PROTEGO! – attack you again! You yourself said that there weren't enough of us to fight each other! PROTEGO!"

She cast shields against the hexes and jinxes that he threw at her even as she spoke, and she was winded but wary with her left hand on her hip. Simply standing, he held an easy grace, and it irritated her that he could stand straight, with his shoulders squared, and seem indolent in the same moment. Only then did she notice that he was dressed similarly to her, in a black shirt that clung to his arms and black pants that and were resistant to the rain that had dusted her own.

"They call you the brightest witch of your age, girl. Tell me, what good are a few miles of running? You could be reading books, you could be practicing wandwork, you could be sleeping, for Merlin's sake. Why are you outside, running before the sun is up, when you will be fighting for your life tomorrow? Do not answer 'because you said to'."

"I…," her eyes widened a fraction and she closed her mouth, reconsidering her answer. He waited.

"Additional endurance-"

"Will not be gained by two days' efforts."

"Following orders-"

"Is something that you have demonstrated proficiency in with your academic scores, though it seems that skill is conditional to textbooks and occasionally, the classroom. Expelliarmus!" and she lost possession of her wand. In the next breath he cast Crucio above her head, Rictusempra to her left, and Furnunculus where she had been standing half a second earlier.

Hermione's heart beat so hard in her chest that she felt the echo in her skin, and she caught her breath as she ducked and then dove forward in an awkward roll. She yelped in pain when her neck cracked and her shoulder drove a rock into the dirt, and she hissed.

"Bloody hell!"

Lazily, he cast Stupefy into the ground next to her and mud spattered her face as she lurched to her feet, only to drop again when Furnunculus shot past her ear. Between the adrenaline and exertion, sheer confusion and something dangerously close to wrath, her vision swam and she couldn't breathe, and she couldn't think, she could only –

"REACTION." And like magic, he lowered his wand and extended hers.

"The word I was looking for was actually "reflexes", but "reaction" will suffice. Five points to Gryffindor."

She could hear the sneer in the drawl of his words, but all she wanted was to breathe. And-

"Professor, why-"

"You will need to multitask, Miss Granger. My presence is required at Hogwarts." He slipped his wand back under his sleeve and took off at a brisk run. She cursed him under her breath and shoved her own wand into a knot in rain-tamed hair, forgetting to measure her breath as she struggled to catch him. He was correct about a few miles not improving her endurance over the span of a day though, and she would fail, trailing behind him, struggling to not break her pace as the stitch grew in her side. She left her question in the rain.

I have such wonderful readers. Thank you for the reviews LK-HoGwArTs-hEaDgIrL and heartmom88! To my anonymous reviewer, THANK YOU! I am terrified of losing Severus' character, and it means so much that you find him as canon as I hope him to be. Please let me know if I falter, but I will do my best by him.

Yours,
Threnody