Warning: This chapter contains themes of suicide, hopelessness and general description of a serious injury. Please take care.

Hermione looked at the clothes on her bed. She'd never been particularly feminine, but she'd never worn boy's clothes before. How would they fit? The jeans looked like they wouldn't make it over her hips.

But Severus said that wouldn't matter. He had a potion for her to take, a more effective disguise than any charm or transfiguration. She'd never heard of a potion that could do such a thing. She'd always thought they were just tonics, really.

He said they were going somewhere. Away. Hermione didn't know what that meant, but she'd never seen him so… focused before. At least not where she was concerned. She didn't ask why. What did it matter? She couldn't do anything about it, whatever it was.

Knock-knock-knock.

He did it so softly, like he didn't want to frighten her away. It drove her mad; she felt prickles of irritation running up and down her spine.

He opened the door with a goblet in his hand. "I have your potion." He handed it to her. Inside, she saw a viscous green fluid; a shadowy shade of emerald. Interesting.

She waited for him to leave, but he seemed intent on staying, so she drank—

—and immediately spat it out, splattering her bedding and floor with green droplets.

"Polyjuice is not known for its taste," he said by way of apology. "I recommend downing it all at once, if you can."

All of it?

"You will need to take all it all." She wondered if he could read her mind. "That dose will last six hours. We cannot afford any less."

Hermione wondered how many minutes she'd just spat onto the floor. With a bracing grimace, she brought the goblet to her lips and gulped it down, holding her breath until the thing was empty and she thought she would vomit.

Her stomach was roiling, twisting—no, it was actually twisting! Everything inside her suddenly contorted itself in the most horrible, unnatural way. She clutched at herself, gasping, and felt Severus lunge for her before she collapsed. It went on forever, she thought, and surely it wouldn't stop until she was inside-out and broken.

The small bones in her digits were the last to settle. She felt her joints pop as her tendons and ligaments sorted themselves out.

Severus brought her to her feet before she could blink twice. Her head came up to his chin, now, instead of his shoulder, and she felt her clothes clinging in wrong places. He still looked at her intently, though she couldn't say what he was searching for. From what she caught of her reflection in his eyes, she wasn't even there at all.

"Good. Good…" Taking her by the shoulders, he steered her to the bed. "Get changed. I will tell you when to come downstairs. You are not to come down until I tell you. You understand?"

She gave him a nod, and then he disappeared. She heard his footsteps down the stairs. Purposeful.

She had no intention to disobey. What was the point? She'd never seen him like this, and she knew now that there was far more danger than she had ever fathomed. How stupid she'd been, to think that the horror she'd encountered at age twelve made her an authority on such things. That the world could never be any worse than what had happened to her that night when Ron went away.

She tugged on the jeans and the shirt and the jacket. They fit her much better, though she didn't enjoy the feeling of clothing against her skin. No, not her skin. Six hours, he'd said. She would tolerate six hours in this body. And then she would claw her way out until she couldn't remember what it felt like to have a body anymore.

Put on the clothes, wait for Severus. It was so easy.

But the voices downstairs were so tempting, and really, what was the worst that could happen? It's not like she would be recognised. Or it would matter if she were. None of it mattered anymore.

Her new legs worked a bit differently, but she managed to keep her footsteps light as she lingered by the stairwell. The voices were low and gruff, but she picked out enough.

"Snape—"

"Are you completely daft, Alecto? I have told you how the knife works. It will leave no trace, nor will its wounds be treatable—"

"But—"

"No-one will have any reason to think it anything but another Muggle murder."

"And if he sees us?"

"Then make sure he does not! We've gone over this already. Now, are you ready to go, or shall I obliviate you?"

"That won't be necessary, Severus." That sounded like an eyeroll; Severus bristled.

"His patrol of the park will start in less than twenty minutes, and I need him taken care of before I can conduct my own business."

"And what is it you have to do, Snape?"

"Are you questioning me, Amicus? His spying on me is not sanctioned by the Dark Lord and you know very well how Draco's tailing me could hinder my ability to gather needed intelligence!"

A shuffling against the carpet; people were moving, likely to the front door.

"You have one hour." Severus was speaking very quietly now. "It must be done then, while I am dining with Rowle. You know the evidence I will require."

And then the door shut and, a minute later, the rush of the Floo. Hermione held her breath for several moments, then let it all rush out of her. Her hands were trembling, but there was a kind of ferocious energy rushing through every part of this new body.

She rushed downstairs, her longer legs nearly tangling. All the fog in her head had cooled, dissipated for the first time in her entire life. The door was locked, of course, but she undid the Muggle lock and a thrum of unexpected magic took care of the rest.

When had she last been outside? Had it been—

She shook her head, shoved her hands in her pockets, and walked to the park.

The sun had nearly set, casting warm light across the path and the greenery. Hermione followed, keeping the two oddly-dressed figures in her line of sight. Her gait was different; her narrow hips pulled her centre of gravity lower. When the pair abruptly sat on a bench, she took a sharp turn towards a broad tree and stood behind it, trying to look relaxed while the heart in her chest threatened to tear itself apart.

"…seriously do this?" She heard the male one say.

"…Draco's a bloody menace…everyone agrees…"

"I don't trust Severus—"

"You'd be a fool if you did!...the knife…there's no way for anyone to know…obliviate him after…"

"…too much risk!"

"If we don't give Severus a body, he'll kill us where we stand!"

"…take that over the Dark Lord any day…"

Thoughtful silence. Then:

"What if… what if we gave him a different body?"

A scoff. "Whose do you have a mind?"

"Well, if it will pass as a Muggle murder… why not a real Muggle?"

"Snape will know—"

"We'll transfigure it after. Say we thought it was him…"

Even Hermione knew that was a very stupid idea, but it didn't stop them, and everything in her stilled.

"It'll be dark soon, not many people about. There's a shrub over there—we'll just…"

Five years, nearly. She'd been locked away in that house. And for what? There was more outside those walls, she knew that now; more than she'd imagined. Would Severus ever allow her to be part of it? Or was she sentenced to live out her life experimenting with confections and pursuing trivial hobbies whilst everyone else did something—meantsomething?

If she were at school, she would have been different. She could have done so much.

But this… this would suffice. This would make up for all that she would never be able to do. People like—like Harry were giving everything they had to save lives. She could do that!

He had been so kind, after all, when he'd shared biscuits with her and told her he liked her name. He didn't deserve this. Not someone who had talked to her, smiled at her whilst everyone else in the world left her in that house like a doll. Even when the others—when they had hurt her—he hadn't meant it. Not fully. He couldn't have done. And where was the justice in killing someone for a mistake? He would have the chance to redeem himself, now.

She would not. But maybe this would make up for what she'd done to Ron. Maybe it would be enough.

The tree bark left scrapes and splinters in her skin; she hadn't realised she'd gripped it so hard. Dusk had settled, the darkness ready to topple over into night-time. She put her stinging hands in her pockets and walked.

Five years. And for what?

Her shoes crunched against the path, the only sound. All the joggers had gone home.

She knew now that she'd only ever been half-alive. Now, with cool air against her face and thrilling power in her blood, she had never felt more present. Or at peace.

"G-good evening." She hadn't used this new voice yet. It was a low tenor, and it rumbled through her throat and chest like hers never had.

"Oi," said the man, "'ve you got a fag?"

"Er…" Hermione patted her pockets. Her hands had gone very cold. She couldn't actually feel them anymore, but her voice was steady. "Don't think so, no, sorry…"

"Pity," said the woman. "I've got a light and everything," and she reached into her coat.

Hermione knew what was to come and waited for it with calm patience.

The glint of the blade did not waver her resolve.

The pain was scorching—she had been stabbed with poisonous fire—but there was a kind of peace in that, too.

After all, it was done, now. All that was left was to accept it and endure.

Severus was not what one might call a jolly person. He had never hummed while taking a stroll, for example, nor was he doing so now, but there was an energy in his step which he had not felt in some time. Very few things were worth looking forward to these days. The riddance of Draco Malfoy would be the highlight of the season.

And once she was free… Well.

There were places for her all over the continent. No-one would miss her. And in her current state, he would have no difficulty spiriting her away.

Truth be told, he was quite proud of himself. How long had it been since he'd operated under his own orders? There was a thrill in it. Powerful, intoxicating…

He would make the most of it while he could.

Night had settled, low and earthy. Severus looked for stars but found none, only clouds and the ever-present fog of urban pollution. A light rain began, cool and wet against his cheeks. How appropriate. He fancied himself reborn.

He encountered nobody as he walked amidst the trees, though still he did not light his wand. They had not told him where they would do the deed, nor had he asked, as long as it was done and done with discretion. Then, he would erase any memory of it from their useless little minds, and rest easy knowing what he had done.

But first, to find the body. There wasn't much time; Hermione's Polyjuice would protect her from strangers near the house, but he needed to return to her soon for the next dose. The arrangements were made; she would leave the country tonight. And maybe, if all went well, he would have earned a parcel of forgiveness for the hell he had wrought upon the world.

Maybe.

Severus stopped. The shrubbery along the path had grown denser, but that was not what attracted his attention. It was the smell; coppery and putrid. Metallic. Death-like.

With silent steps, he crept onto the grass. The moisture seeped around his shoes, but he hardly cared. It was too dark to see anything but the shadowy shapes of nature, until—

There.

A body. Heaved onto the ground, as though rolled. Severus saw the uncomfortable twist of the arm as it lay on its side, the darkness of blood on the hand. There was a discomfort in Death, Severus knew. He had seen it often enough. How one could confuse it with sleep eluded him; no-one willingly lay like this. Painfully. Inelegantly. Severus hoped his own death would never subject him to this sort of humiliation. Let him be vaporised instead, or forever lost. There was a poetry in that, after all.

He could not stay long, but he would verify it had been done as ordered.

Crouching, Severus surveyed the thing up and down. Blonde hair, long limbs… Draco had always seemed taller than this, he thought, but perhaps lying in such a position betrayed his true size. Never were more than a child, were you?

Except—surely his shoulders had been broader than this? His hair shorter, too. Severus reached forward a hand and placed it on the shoulder. Cold, and wet from the rain, yet warmer than he had expected. How long he taken to die? Severus pulled until the body rolled onto its back with a heavy flop.

The hair was pale, the skin, too; even the nose was the approximate shape, but the rest was all wrong.

His first thought was fury he had not recognised the decoy for what it was.

His second was agony.

And then, horror: The body still breathed. Shallow, trembling movements, but there, nevertheless. Severus watched the ribs expand and contract, above where the blood continued to dribble out. The abdomen was covered in it entirely. He could not see the wound, but it did not stop his wand. His knees sank into bloody mud as he chanted, willing his magic to seek where the knife had left its curse—his curse—that incurable injury he himself had designed—

For enemies.

Not for this.

He did away with the blood, revealing casual Muggle clothes beneath. Familiar clothes. Not Draco.

His hands, slippery and red, stopped. He could not move, could not look. But the breathing had got deeper, just for a moment, and the little sound that had come with it was his final damnation.

"Severus?"

The eyes were open. Green, but shifting to brown. He had never seen a transformation during such a degree of injury before. She didn't protest, though, even though he saw the wound worsen as her shifting body stretched and tore around itself. When it was done, the clothes didn't quite fit anymore, and her long hair was sticking to the mud beneath.

Still, she looked at him, pale and with blood on her lips. She looked almost happy.

He choked. It sounded like her name.

"Please… don't be angry with me…"

With you?

"I came to take you away…" he said, though his voice was no longer his own. Everything in him had gone cold, colder than even she. "I can't—I can't save you now." The blood wouldn't stop, wouldn't go back inside where it was meant to be, and he couldn't move her. Not like this. She'd break in his arms if he tried to apparate. There just wasn't enough of her left.

"I know," she said, softly. Simply. He wondered how this was so easy for her. His insides were on fire. This is what hell is, he thought, except this was so much worse, and such a simple concept as hell would never quite capture the magnitude of suffering humans inflicted on one another.

He pushed the hair out of her eyes, from her clammy cheeks. She was so cold. He wondered if she knew she was shivering.

And then again: "Please don't be angry with me." She tried to breathe a moment. "You were good to me… But it's not"—she coughed—"it's not right, you see? You have to keep… doing what you do… to protect people… Harry…"

He thought it funny for her to think so, considering it was his "protection" which had left her bleeding out in the dirt.

"Harry… he saves everybody…" How would you know, you stupid child? "Now I got to save somebody, too."

He's fingers curled into her bicep, both in desperation and rage. He had been so close, so close to righting at least one of the wrongs he had done in his life. Saving her had been his deliverance. And now she had taken that from him, too. And for what? For a murderous maniac who would never appreciate her sacrifice, who would spit in her face for it!

"I want to see Ron again," she said softly, and he choked again, but this time it didn't stop. "I think… I think it must be nicer, there… With so many others… I won't be—be left alone again…"

He couldn't let go of her, but she wasn't looking at him anymore. He wondered if she ever would again.

"Thank you," she told him. "You were so g-good to me… but I'd… I would like to go now…"

He didn't stop her. Didn't know how. He couldn't even be sure she'd gone, even when the Moon had come out and his entire body had gone numb from the cold. Even when her blood chilled.

There he sat amongst the shrapnel of his plan, his singular hope. If he could have freed her, if he could have liberated another prisoner, trapped by the whims of other wizards, then who was to say what he could have done? Hope was not lost when such things were possible.

Perhaps they had been condemned from the start. And who could be blamed but those that had forced her here, and him who had consented to hold the key?

Stupid.

The war still beat around him, an endless throb more constant than his heartbeat. It mocked him, calling him back to what he could never escape. He was a jester for two kings. Obedient. He would serve until the war was lost, or won, and then he would die.

There was a peace in that, he thought. If she could do it, then so could he.

All that was left was to accept it and endure.

A/N: Thank you for reading this unconventional experiment of mine. I hope it moved you in some way, and if you're feeling miserable please remember it's just a story. Yes, there are dark things in the world and a lot of cruelty, but there is so much light, too. At our core, humans are kind to each other and there is infinite beauty in that. Take a moment to go for a walk outside or make yourself a cup of something nice. You deserve it, and we can always do with a little more magic. -bel