A/N: So! Sorry, guys. I totally spent the day sleeping and moping. But never fear! Chapter ten has halfway written itself (while I was off doing random things, like grocery shopping and drawing SS/HG fanart), and has somehow made its way to the internet.

You all have been blowing up my inbox with your reviews/subscriber alerts. I'm the spoiled one now. I don't know what to do when my inbox is empty ;A;
If I don't reply to your reviews, I'm sorry. Know that I appreciate every single one, and that I try to reply when I can. You guys rock for taking the time to let me know what you think of IWFYID!

I promise, Severus and Hermione will find each other again. You know, eventually.

ANYWAYS.

Thanks for being awesome readers. It's late and I'm rambling.

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling graced us with the sandbox, I'm just making sandcastles with Dungeon Bats and Know-It-All princesses. (Disney doesn't belong to me either. Drat.)

It took Jean three days to wake up from the bad batch of heroin. It took her another four to be lucid enough for the doctors to inform her that Thom was dead.

Her grief hit her like a brick, effectively knocking the wind out of her and bringing her to her knees.

Thom was dead.

In a way, she knew it was her fault. He might not have used that day had she not threatened to leave. He might have used at some other time, without her, and she would have been able to save him. It didn't matter.

Thom was dead.

Her grief was crippling. She couldn't bring herself to care about anything or anyone else, extending her stay in the hospital another two weeks.

She became unresponsive, not eating, not sleeping. She was just there.

She was kept on sedatives, and a psychiatrist came and prescribed several medications that kept her on an even keel emotionally and worked to prevent the panic attacks she was now prone to.

Thom was dead.

She took the pills, or they were forced down her throat. In time she began to respond to treatment as she came to terms with her grief. Thom. Was. Dead.

Her best friend, her brother, her mentor. The man who had looked after her, taken care of her, made sure she always had a roof over her head, a warm place to sleep. The man who had introduced her to life, made brand new memories to replace the ones she had lost.

He was dead.

She was told that Anton had apparently broken out of her bedroom and found Thom on the floor, unresponsive. While not a particularly ethical man, Anton reported Thom's overdose to the authorities in order to save his own skin, and a ME had claimed him dead later that evening.

In between the overdose and Anton's discovering Thom, Jean had mysteriously been brought to the hospital.

None of the doctors would tell her who had brought her, though a loose lipped orderly let it slip that it was apparently Thom's father who had found her and physically carried her to the hospital, apparently deeming Thom unworthy of medical attention.

Jean had railed against her doctors when she had found out. She demanded to know who the man was so she could go and give him a piece of her mind, scream at him for letting his son and her best friend die. She wanted to beat on him, kick him while he was down, and let him know just how much his son meant to her.

Instead she could only grieve and continue living. While she wanted very desperately to wallow in self pity, she was forced to remember the lessons that Thom had taught her.

"Don't live in the past,Retro. Hakuna Matata and all that jazz. Dwelling doesn't do a damned bit of good unless you're actually going to do something about it."

So instead of wallowing in self pity and despair, Jean decided to do something about it.

Having spent over a year with Thom, Jean had picked up several useful skills, infiltration being one of them. She knew that Thom's 'father' had footed the bill for her treatment, even leaving instructions for her rehabilitation program to be paid for.

A nighttime foray into the filing cabinets at the nurse's station, and Jean's dilemma was solved. There was no name, but she had an address.

She would have to bide her time until she was able to go and confront the man. Criminal charges were just that; she would have to show proper documentation as to the progress of her rehabilitation before she would be allowed to terrorize society again.

Once that day came, she would travel to Cokeworth and find Spinner's End, where her mysterious benefactor was said to live.

As she left the hospital in an escort to her rehab program, her mind was focused on two things: Severus and finding Thom's father.

"Hi...my name is Jean, and I'm a heroin addict."

"Hi, Jean," half a dozen voices chorused, the owners' expressions ranging from pity to disinterest.

Jean remained at the podium, trying to override her feelings of shame as she struggled to find the rest of the words for her introduction.

Seeing her plight, the rehab counselor smiled knowingly, and prompted her next answer.

"Jean, how long did you use?"

Jean couldn't meet the group's eyes, instead examining her finger nails as if with great interest.

"A year and a half...the last hit I took was laced, and I almost overdosed. My brother died from it, and I was in the hospital for over a week..."

And there it was. The weight on her shoulders, the essence of the guilt she carried with her at all times. Thom was dead.

Deciding she'd been up there long enough, she stepped down from the raised dais and took her seat, zoning out as the next member of the group stepped up to drone out their name and story.

She was two weeks into her rehab program, which promised to be at least a three month stint, if she did well. Thom's 'father' had pledged to pay for her rehab as long as it took. She was tempted to stay there as long as she could in an attempt to bleed the man dry, but she wouldn't last that long. Two weeks had already nearly done her in.

Already the counsellors tended to prattle on, and she hadn't made them privy to her memory loss just yet. They figured her addiction stemmed from childhood abuse, or not watching enough Disney movies in her youth.

She was loathe to tell them that as far as she was concerned, she had no childhood. Her trip-induced memory expeditions had produced a few fuzzy memories: a birthday party, going shopping in a weird district of London that she hadn't been able to find again, a cat so ugly that she considered him handsome. No one could tell her she hadn't had a pet. Even if he had no name.

It was in her third week that she received two letters, something unprecedented since she was of a mind that if she didn't know anyone, there would be no one sending her letters.

The first was from a solicitor that had handled Thom's will. It seemed that at some point Thom had written her into his will. He had inherited a small fortune somewhere along the road, and it explained how he had managed to always find them a place to live, despite the fact that they were both jobless.

He had bequeathed everything he owned to her, as well as all the assets in his bank accounts. Even if his father hadn't vowed to take care of her bill, she now had more than enough money to defray the costs and still find a place to live once she had finished her program.

The second was from someone who only signed their name as S.S., with no return address.

Opening the letter, she stared at the sloping script for a long while, her brow furrowing as she realized that it seemed achingly familiar.

Dear Jean,

I hope this missive finds you well and in good health. I am well aware that you have hit a rough patch as of late, though I find myself incredibly disappointed at the source of your troubles.

It has come to my attention that you have been placed in a rehabilitation program, and I have taken it upon myself to be your 'letter buddy' as those insipid counselors call it. If you ever refer to me as your 'letter buddy', I shall never write to you again.

You have been warned.

In any case, you may consider me your confidant for the next three months. While I will admit that I have a personal stake in your happiness, rest assured that I will remain nothing but objective in my readings and my replies.

I am here to listen, and provide a somewhat sympathetic ear to your plight. I recognize that your current situation is not ideal, but it is my aim to alleviate some of your burden, and provide an outlet for your energies other than drug abuse. If you would kindly leave your reply with Nurse Helena, she will make sure that our missives are delivered to one another in a timely manner.

Do not be lax in your communications. They are quite literally a condition of your impending freedom, and you would do well to remember that. This is non-negotiable.

Yours truly,

S.S.

Jean raised an eyebrow as she set the letter down. She'd be damned if she wrote back to him with more frequency than she deemed necessary. Yet again...

Picking up the letter, she clutched it to her chest, flopping back on her bed. This S.S. was actually interested in her wellbeing. She didn't know them, but they knew her. Perhaps there was a chance that they could tell her who she was, or who she had been.

An overly cheerful voice came in over the intercom to her room, merrily announcing, "Attention: All wandering souls of the addiction group are to report to the cafeteria for therapy. We look forward to seeing everyone there!"

As the voice signed off Jean groaned, covering her face with the letter, breathing in the scent of paper and dried ink.

She was already composing her reply to the mysterious S.S. as she trudged off to the first of many tortures in store for her at the program.

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