Hermione bit her lip nervously and glanced at her watch: the hands were pointing at half past four in the morning, and she desperately kept losing the last remnants of hope she could muster. Days followed days, winter turned more and more severe, and February became more and more relentless, the walls of the Ward of Healing of Victims of the Dark Curses pressed down on her, this did not add her desperate heart any more optimism.

Draco was trying to instill a confidence in his friend, but he hardly ever been an optimist.

"Understand, Pumpkin, you need a source of stress, then everything will fall into place, as it happened with Neville's parents," Draco admonished, perching right on top of the unfinished research folder in Hermione's office.

"Since when did the blockhead Longbottom become just Neville for you?" Hermione muttered, crossing out her recent research with a stroke of the Muggle pen, the research which again did not bring her any positive results.

"Ever since he and I got completely drunk at Potter's wedding, then in the middle of the night we came here, played with some promising potions, and then Neville suggested that I use the rare belladonna pink-leaved as a remedy for depression, and that helped my father... And then there was Occlumency..."

"I won't use Legillimency on Professor Snape! I've told you a thousand times that in the case of Neville's parents the risk was justified!"

"Of course, for more than twenty years they have been playing the role of brainless vegetables, while the dear professor..."

"Shut up! Just shut up, Draco!" Hermione snapped angrily, jumping to her feet. "Do you think I am a soulless bitch, obsessed with the salvation of all the unfortunate and ready for the good of one to sacrifice the lives of others? You're confusing me with Dumbledore, Draco!"

Draco wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose, straightened the file with the reports and went up to Hermione, carefully looked into her eyes, and tucked the stray curl behind her ear.

"It's just that, Sugarplum, I shouldn't have said that, but you are well aware of your stubbornness, as well as of your unwillingness to listen and hear anyone who disagrees with you. I am not asking you to risk his life, I am asking only to think. It hurts me, Lavender, and even Potter and the Weasel to see how you waste yourself with every passing day. Think about it, Pumpkin, for the sake of us all."

"Draco, don't you dare call Ron ..."

"Okay, okay, he's not a Weasel, whatever you say," Draco grinned at her and left the room.

Hermione could only frown and looked away, doomed. Whatever one may say, but Draco was right in everything: she really brought herself to exhaustion, fearing to face the truth: Severus Snape made his own choice, preferring this strange existence in which there was no place for potions or Hogwarts, neither the students, nor, even more so, the Unbearable Know-it-all with a shock of brown hair.

"I'm losing my mind," Hermione whispered ruefully.

"No, child, you are not. You are lonely, you are confused, you are scared, but despair is a bad helper in doomed situations," Minerva McGonagall consoled her, walking into the room.

"Professor McGonagall, what should I do?" Hermione pleaded, moving her wand and sending the ill-fated folder to the far drawer and asking the local house elves for two cups of tea and gingerbread.

Minerva walked around the office, pensively examining the even rows of awards that Hermione, Draco, and Lavender have received over the past few years, noting to herself that her students have done more for the Magic Community than the entire Ministry put together. Children, nevertheless, for her they will forever remain children, helped everyone, demanding nothing in return, but who will help them?

Meanwhile, Hermione took the order from the elf and held out one of the cups to McGonagall.

"I would advise you not to underestimate Severus, not to lecture Draco's with unnecessary lectures on morality, and to listen to your heart. It is unlikely that Professor Snape would trade the opportunity to finally live freely and make his own choice for this stupid existence in a hospital room."

"But Professor McGonagall!

"Also, I would advise you to go teach Potions at Hogwarts, but it seems this place is waiting for its true professor. Give him a chance, Hermione, and give yourself one too."

"And if I fail?" Hermione whispered, lowering her head.

Minerva smiled sadly and stepped closer and took Hermione's hands in hers.

"Since when my Gryffindors are afraid of losing? Since when don't they face a challenge?"

"I've lost so much already, professor..."

"This is not a reason to say goodbye to your life, Hermione. We all have lost something, but have managed to gain a lot in return. Take the first step and remember that Severus, even desperate, is far more cunning and smart than we might give him credit to."

And now Hermione was looking in vain into the veil of fog behind which Snape's most precious memories were hidden. Her fingers, gripping the wand, turned white with tension, droplets of blood glistened on her bitten lip, the ticking of a clock rang in her ears like a bell, but the shields did not budge.

If neither Dumbledore nor Voldemort managed to unravel Professor Snape's secrets, then could she really do that? Yes, society considered her an outstanding witch and a very talented healer, but she knew so little about her professor that it was simply ridiculous to hope for her own omnipotence.

She ran forward, clothes clinging to branches, feet slipping in the mud or hitting driftwood that Snape's clever maze of consciousness had built against the unexpected troublemakers.

Every now and then Hermione caught flashes of unknown spells, every now and then the wind carried the smell of herbs and sounds of other people's voices, like echoes of forgotten memories. Here and there vague shadows flickered, taking on the outline of the silhouette of her professor, and fading in the next second.

It seemed that Hermione had been wandering in the Halls of his Mind for ages, unable to find a way out or find a solution, when suddenly the fog cleared away, and her feet led her into a clearing with an almost withered willow tree in the center.

It was warm and damp, it smelled of rotten leaves, mushrooms and pine needles, somewhere, it seemed, a fire was crackling. Hermione closed her eyes for a moment: she remembered how she once told Snape that her "Promised Land" would be a place where eternal October would reign, trees and pines would grow, the rain would hum its song to the still trees and a fire would burn. Stumbling and nearly falling, she rushed forward.

"Severus! Professor Snape!

He sat at the roots of a willow tree and made charcoal sketches on a piece of paper that had turned yellow with age. Hearing her call, he did not even budge, and when she finally ran and almost collapsed on her knees in front of him, he just glanced sideways and hissed angrily:

"What are you doing here? Why did you come to torture me even after death?"

"What are you saying? I am alive, Severus, we won the war!" Hermione began hurriedly, stepping closer, but he threw out his hand to prevent her movements.

"Go away! I promised I would not let you die, I swore that I would help Potter and I would not let Minerva down, but I didn't keep a single promise! Why did you come here?"

"I came to help... You helped us all, without you we would have lost! Harry managed at the last moment and defeated Voldemort. And we went to help you and Minerva, Severus, wait, listen!"

"You're lying... Lying! The Pumpkin is dead! Go away!"

And just as Hermione reached for Severus to touch his hand, a flash of magic blinded her and threw her back out into the real world. Draco, who had been watching Hermione's silent attempts to reach the professor for an hour and a half, rushed to her.

"What, Sugarplum, what is it?"

"Draco... oh, Draco, he thinks I'm dead," Hermione whispered and sobbed into Draco's neck.