She told Snape nothing of what had happened in Diagon Alley when she saw him later. She knew he wasn't taking the Daily Prophet, so there was little chance of him finding out about the skirmish once the press inevitably got wind of it, and besides, the man was miserable enough as it was – telling him would achieve absolutely nothing apart from demoralising him further. That, or he'd scowl and tell her he'd told her so, and she definitely didn't want to give him the satisfaction of that.

And she told no one of her meeting with Lucius Malfoy, though every spare second she had she found herself pondering his offer. Not about whether she would accept it or not (she could never do that – she meant what she'd told him, she wasn't about to stoop to corruption) but about what had caused him to offer in the first place. He must have been friends with loads of Death Eaters – was he testifying against them all by day and secretly sabotaging their trials by night? Or did he feel he owed it to Professor Snape for helping Draco in their sixth year? Was Malfoy even trustworthy?

Pushing that little mystery to the back of her mind, she spent the rest of the day researching wizarding law in the Black library, trying to find any case vaguely similar to Snape's. But even after hours of searching she found nothing. The only thing remotely close was a case in the seventies involving a life-insurance fraud by a husband and wife duo living in Somerset. Apparently the two had schemed to fake the husband's death; they had performed some remarkable transfiguration on their pet cat to make him resemble the husband, and the wife had cast the Killing Curse on the poor unsuspecting feline using a stolen wand and planned to claim her husband had been murdered by a burglar. Unfortunately for the poor couple, however, there was a bit of a mix up at the time of the killing, and the wife only realised her error when, shortly after the deed, she caught the cat-impersonator defecating in the couple's prize rose bushes. Incredibly, the woman had gotten off the murder charge, since she argued that the spell had been intended for the cat, instead serving a short sentence only for fraud and reckless use of spells.

The case had made for fascinating reading, but it was little help to her, as last time she'd checked Albus Dumbledore hadn't been a cat.

Suddenly, the grandfather clock in the hallway struck twelve, and she realised she'd been reading for almost three hours straight. With a long yawn, Hermione leaned back in her chair and stretched her aching neck.

From the other side of the room, her new owl hooted from its cage then pecked at the bars and blinked at her with its large, orange eyes. With a chuckle, Hermione rose from her chair and crossed the room, then opened the latch on the cage. The owl hopped onto her outstretched arm.

'We'd better come up with a name for you, hm?' She moved back to the desk and looked down at her open copy of Wizarding Trials of the Ages. 'How about …' She scanned the page and a name caught her eye. 'Barnabus – after the eighteenth century warlock?' The owl blinked at her twice as if to say, Are you out of your mind? Hermione laughed. 'Yes, you're right, that's awful. Hm … Merlin? A lot to live up to, though, a name like that.'

The owl ruffled his feathers and pecked at her finger.

'Ouch!' she cried, then laughed. 'Offended you, did I?'

She tilted her head thoughtfully.

'What about … Pax?'

The owl hooted softly, and Hermione smiled. Pax … Peace … She liked that.

'Pax it is then,' said Hermione softly, and ruffled the feathers around Pax's ear in the way he seemed to enjoy, before he flew off to roost on top of a bookcase.

Moving to the sofa, she turned back to her book and continued to read into the early hours, only stopping when she realised she'd read the same paragraph three times without taking any of it in. She yawned long and hard, as she lowered the book to her chest, her body heavy with exhaustion … her eyes fluttering closed …

She was on her knees in a large, opulent drawing room with marble floors and a crystal chandelier which swung ominously above her. A witch with wild, dark hair and even darker eyes was circling her, her wand pointed down at Hermione's trembling form, eyes alight with mad rage as she laughed maniacally.

'Crucio!' Bellatrix Lestrange screamed.

Hermione's body contorted as all her nerves were set on fire and she collapsed against the cold, unyielding floor. She was sure she could hear screaming, but the sound seemed not to be coming from her mouth; instead it streamed in from the open window across the room, a faint echo, as though carried on a wind. She struggled against the cords pinning her wrists behind her back as the mad witch laughed above her. Her body twitched madly as the curse tore its way through her veins.

Just when she thought the pain was never going to end, and she was going to lose her mind, it came to a sudden stop. She collapsed against the floor, breathless with relief.

'Please …' she gasped.

'Aww, is the pretty little Mudblood getting tired?' taunted Bellatrix. Suddenly, Hermione was being flipped over and she felt the Death Eater's hot breath on her cheek. 'Perhaps you'd prefer a more … Muggle … method of torture, hm?'

Through her tears, Hermione caught the glint of silver as the witch drew a small dagger from her robes.

'No …' she uttered weakly. Tears streamed down her face.

'Then tell me where you got the sword from!'

'We found it … please.'

'LIES!'

The dagger was at her throat in an instant, resting sharply against her flesh, and Hermione was sobbing harder than she'd ever sobbed in her life. The combination of smells – Bellatrix's perfume, mingled with the stench of her own sweat and fear – caused bile to rise in her throat.

'Tell the truth!' Bellatrix shrieked.

'I am, I swear!'

The Death Eater actually bared her teeth, then her lips widened in an evil, mocking smile as she leaned in closer.

'There's no point in resisting, my pretty. I'll carve the truth out of you one way or another.' Bellatrix looked down at the dagger and admired the way the light from the chandelier glinted off the blade. Then, slowly, she brought it towards Hermione's left arm …

'No!'

She was sitting upright, her heart pounding, her breath coming in ragged gasps. A heavy, wool blanket was tangled between her legs, her entire body covered in a light sheen of sweat.

A dream. It was just a dream … a memory …

Just a memory. And yet it had felt so real – she could still recall vividly the way the Death Eater's eyes had danced with a mad, sadistic joy at the sight of her writhing body, how she'd laughed at her pain, the humiliation of the witch carving that word into her flesh …

Hermione's hand automatically went to her left forearm. She was forever marked now – she'd tried glamour spells, without success, eventually concluding that the dagger must have been bewitched somehow to prevent them from working. Even in death, Bellatrix Lestrange wouldn't let her forget what she'd done to her …

But Bellatrix is dead … Molly Weasley killed her … there was no threat now …

She had to repeat this mantra several times before the panic began to subside. With her emotions finally under control, she looked around her; she was still on the sofa in the library. Pax was snoozing in his cage. She could see the sun beginning to rise through the window.

Feeling suddenly suffocated by the blanket clinging to her body, she kicked it to the floor and rose from the sofa. There was no point in attempting to go back to sleep after one of her nightmares, she knew that from experience. And anyway – she glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece – it was nearly seven and the boys would be up soon. Ron especially would be suspicious if she slept in – she was usually the earliest to rise of the three – and it would only invite questions. She had no desire for her boyfriend to know about her regular night terrors when he had enough of his own traumas to deal with. She'd been lucky so far; he was a heavy enough sleeper that he hadn't noticed her bad dreams.

Grabbing her wand from the nearby coffee table, she cast a much-needed cleansing charm upon herself then headed to the kitchen to make herself a pot of strong tea.

oOo

Nightmares were hardly a new occurrence for Severus Snape. But where before he'd dealt with them quite effectively with Occlumency, or if that failed, heading to his lab to brew simple potions – the mindless, rhythmic stirring of a cauldron was the most effective form of meditation he knew – he could rely on so such tactics here. The result had been one fitful night's sleep after another, plagued by visions of a certain magical serpent. On this particular morning, he'd woken obscenely early – barely past five – and had spent the next hour glaring at the ceiling in a hopeless attempt to snatch another couple of hours of sleep before having to suffer Granger's morning chatter.

At around half seven, he gave it up as a lost cause; he was far too alert now to drift off again and anyway, the pressings of his bladder were quickly becoming too much to bear. Moving gingerly, he slid his legs from under the covers in a slow, controlled motion, and rose to his feet.

So far so good, he thought.

He made it to the small, en-suite bathroom easily enough, by gripping onto various pieces of furniture along the way. The Healers at St. Mungo's had tried their damnedest to get him to use a walking stick, but he'd told them in no uncertain terms where they could shove that idea.

Ablutions completed, he rinsed his hands in the faucet then dried them on the ratty hand towel, which he then flung haphazardly over the edge of the sink bowl.

There was no mirror above the sink, a fact he'd been grateful for when he'd first arrived at Grimmauld Place. And yet for the first time since awakening from his coma Severus suddenly wished for one. He'd not yet seen the damage Nagini had wrought upon his flesh. He'd never been a handsome man – what possible difference could the addition of a few more scars make? Where he was headed, it would hardly matter anyway.

For some strange reason, though, he suddenly felt compelled to look.

He searched the room for a mirror, opened every cupboard and drawer, until he found what he was looking for – an ornate, hand-held mirror perched on top of the cabinet above the sink.

He reached up and grasped the tips of his fingers around the metal handle. Wincing at the slight discomfort in his arm caused by the movement, he held the mirror up to his face.

He thought one more scar couldn't make a difference? Merlin, how wrong he had been.

It was a truly hideous sight that met him in the reflection. The damage to his neck was extensive, the flesh around the wounds a mess of inflamed, red scars and damaged tissue. He reached up and gingerly touched the two large puncture wounds where Nagini's fangs had penetrated his skin – a shiver ran down his spine at the memory.

He'd known it was bad, but still it was a shock to see the visual reminder of how close to death he had truly been. He ran his finger along the raised scars, and let out a pained hiss.

The rest of his face wasn't faring much better. Dark eyes were framed with dark circles, his skin was as sallow than ever, only now with a slight unhealthy, greyish tinge to it, half an inch of beard growth covered his jaw, and his hair was thick with grease.

He caught a whiff of himself – he stank, too. There was only so much you could do with a flannel wash, and he was long overdue a proper, hot shower. It wasn't something he'd felt up to attempting until now, since he'd barely managed to stay upright long enough to do more than hobble to the toilet and back.

Decision made, he limped back to the bedroom, and – carefully, so as to avoid triggering the Ministry's charms – eased open the door. Granger would be here soon – hopefully she'd take the hint and leave his breakfast for him on the table. With any luck he wouldn't even have to interact with the girl this morning.

At that thought, his sour mood brightened a little, and he headed back the bathroom.

oOo

When Hermione got to Snape's room, she found the door ajar and the bedroom empty. Curious, she peeked inside and noticed the steam trickling out from the gap under the bathroom door and the sound of the shower running.

She froze. Mere yards away from where she stood, separated from him by a door, was her naked Potions professor …

The word flitted through her mind inappropriately, but almost as soon as she had thought it she brushed it away in a cool, business-like manner. She knew he'd kill her if he caught her hovering while he was in such a vulnerable state, so she sprung into action. She made to cross the room, intending on leaving the tray in its usual spot before hurrying back downstairs. But almost as soon as she crossed the threshold there was a small crash from behind the bathroom door, followed by a muffled swearing. The water turned off abruptly.

Hermione lingered by the wardrobe, torn between tapping on the bathroom door to offer her assistance and darting back into the corridor and pretending she'd never heard a thing. He'd likely tear her to shreds if she made her presence known, but could she in good conscience leave when he might be hurt?

In her indecision, she dithered too long, and after a few more muffled groans of undeniable pain, the door handle turned. Hermione's heart thumped in her chest. She had just enough time to dash out the room and halfway across the hall before she heard the professor's tentative steps across the wooden floorboards. She could tell just from the way he was moving he was in pain.

She cursed herself for not having gone with her first instinct. Now she was caught in the awkward position of having to playact at ignorance – something which had never been her strong suit. The seconds ticked by, then – when enough time had passed – she approached the door again and knocked.

There was no response, so she poked her head through the gap. Snape was leaning against the desk in his frayed dressing gown, his skinny ankles bared, long feet having left wet footprints on the floorboards. His soaked hair was dripping down his neck and his eyes were closed, his face screwed up in obvious discomfort.

'Good morning, sir,' she said shyly.

He jumped – had he not even noticed her knock? Immediately, she waved her wand and sent the tray to the bed, and crossed the floor to where he stood now clutching his chest with one hand.

'You're in pain?' she said softly.

'What gave it away?' His voice was strained. He swayed a little.

'Let me help you.'

Her hand had barely made contact with his arm before he snatched it away as though she was contaminated.

'I don't need help, Granger,' he slurred, but in his haste to move away from her, he had unbalanced himself and his left leg buckled under his weight. Hermione caught him, but not before his knee hit the ground with a loud thump.

'I've got you, sir. Here, lean on me.'

He was conscious but only just – his eyes half-lidded and dazed – and she wrapped an arm around his alarmingly narrow waist. Guiding his arm over her shoulder, she somehow managed to lead him into bed, where she covered him with the quilt.

'Do you have anything up here for the pain?' she said, and he nodded weakly towards a small box on the desk, a bead of perspiration running down the side of his face. She crossed the room and opened the box, finding an assortment of potions and creams, and took out one phial of pain potion.

'You'd better eat your toast first, sir. Pain potions don't work as well on an empty stomach.'

'I think I know that, Granger,' he muttered weakly, but he took a slice all the same and proceeded to demolish the entire plate in a display of gluttony that rivalled even Ron after he came in from a Quidditch match. When the plate was empty she handed him the phials, and within thirty seconds of swallowing the potion, he visibly relaxed. The faint crease between his eyes told of some remaining tension, but when he met her eyes his gaze was now focused and alert.

'Are you often in this much pain, sir?' she asked.

He seemed reluctant to answer her, but eventually he did. 'The injuries on my neck frequently cause some discomfort,' he said slowly. 'The flareups such as you just witnessed are less common – they tend to occur when I don't sleep well or if I've overexerted myself.'

'Which was it today?'

He grinned ruefully. 'A bit of both. I thought I could handle being upright for long enough to have a shower, but apparently I was mistaken.'

Tomorrow she'd offer to perform a cleansing charm on him; it hadn't occurred to her before and she felt a little guilty.

'I'm sorry,' she said after a while.

'What for? It isn't your fault.'

'I know, I'm just sorry you have to go through this. You don't deserve it.'

'There would be many who would disagree with you there. Who would say I deserve far worse.'

'That's because they don't really know you.'

'And you do? Don't delude yourself, Granger. Just because you've brought me a few meals and seen me in my dressing gown, it doesn't mean you know a damn thing about me.'

'I know more about you than you think,' she said defensively. 'And I know that despite the persona you present to the world you're a good man deep down.'

There was a long silence following her proclamation; Snape was eyeing her carefully. 'Potter showed you the memories, I assume.' She got the impression he'd been wanting to ask that for a while.

'No, actually, he didn't,' she said, and noted his look of relief. 'He wouldn't do that without your permission. He did tell us though, most of it I think.'

'And from those few scraps you think you've divined what kind of man I am,' he said drily. 'Let me guess' – he glanced at the pile of books she'd brought him the other day – 'I'm a tragic, misunderstood hero like in one of your Victorian novels.'

She opened her mouth to deny it, but he interrupted her with a curt, 'Honesty, Granger.'

She considered him. His words had stung, because – if she was really honest with herself – there was an element of truth to them. But she certainly hadn't romanticised the man, if that's what he was getting at.

'I think your life has been quite tragic,' she said finally, 'and that you are often misunderstood. And there's no denying you're a war hero, sir, whether you want to believe it or not.' He scowled at her, and she raised an eyebrow in what she thought might have been a rather good imitation of him. 'But I'm not just a naïve schoolgirl who's made you out to be some romantic Byronic figure. I'm well aware that even though you may have been on our side, that doesn't mean you can't be completely horrid, that you don't take pleasure in putting others down, that you didn't spend six years belittling me and my friends, that you didn't go out of your way to make me feel like nothing when all I ever wanted was to do my best in your classes and to receive one tiny scrap of praise from you, that—'

'I get the point,' he hissed. She slammed her mouth shut.

Following her speech, there was a long, awkward pause, during which all that could be heard was her breathing. Feeling like she'd just signed her own death warrant, she forced herself to meet his eyes – he had wanted honesty, well that was what she had given, she had nothing to be ashamed of. How she wished he would say something, though, anything, instead of this endless, silent scrutiny.

At length, he spoke: 'This is truly what you think of me?'

She swallowed. 'It is.'

'Then good.'

'Good?' she said with a frown. 'How is that in any way good? I'm meant to be the one trying to change everyone's minds about you, and I've just told you you're a deeply unpleasant man and insulted you to your face.'

He seemed amused by that, but the moment lasted barely a fraction of a second and his face was impassive again. 'I have been … concerned that if you go around spouting about my so-called heroics people will think you've been Confunded, and your campaign will backfire most unpleasantly.'

She thought about her outburst yesterday in Diagon Alley, about her calling him a hero to the crowd of people, about how that woman had accused her of being bewitched, and was suddenly immensely grateful she hadn't told him any of it. 'So let me get this straight,' she said. 'You want me to continue disliking you while at the same time trying to convince the world of your goodness and innocence? Forgive me for saying so, sir, but it seems you haven't thought this through very well.'

The corner of his mouth flickered upwards, and she couldn't help a small chuckle.

'Look,' she continued, 'I have no plans to parade down Diagon Alley with a megaphone shouting about your unrequited love for Lily Evans,' – at that, he looked away sharply – 'or to turn you into an object of pity, if that's what you're afraid of. You don't have to worry. You can trust me.'

He looked into her eyes, and even though she knew it was impossible because of the bracelet around his wrist, she got the impression he was using Legilimency on her, so intense was his glittering black stare. After the longest time, he nodded.

'Thank you.'

'You're welcome.'

Again, silence fell between them. Now would be the appropriate time to leave, she knew, but she couldn't quite bring herself to yet. She'd expected him to react with his usual snappishness after her little speech, but he hadn't. Perhaps she could push her luck a little further …

'You know … you really were quite horrible at school sometimes,' she said.

Every sinew of her being told her she was mad, that she would regret this.

'I'm aware.'

She waited for more but it never came. He wasn't looking at her but some spot on the covers in front of him.

'When Malfoy hexed my teeth in fourth year, you said you saw no difference. I was already so self-conscious about my teeth and that just …'

He seemed to recall the incident in question because she was certain she saw a flash of shame on his pale face as he turned incrementally away from her.

'I remember it well.' There was a pregnant pause, and she was amazed when he continued. 'My mark had been tingling for months. I knew what was coming and what would be expected of me when it did. Any hint of kindness towards a Muggle-born student would have got back to the Dark Lord soon enough, it would have risked everything. It was too perfect an opportunity to let slip. And it worked; when the Dark Lord looked into my mind upon his return, he saw the incident just as I had intended – as proof of my continued loyalty.'

Hermione nodded her understanding. 'And all it took was the humiliation of a fifteen-year-old girl,' she said, with just a hint of bitterness in her voice, even though she knew she was being silly.

'A bargain,' he said stonily. 'It was war, Granger. The feelings of fifteen-year-old girls weren't exactly a top priority.'

'No, I expect not,' she said. 'I'd have appreciated being let in on the secret though.'

'Then the next time a megalomaniac dark wizard attempts to take control, I promise I shall seek your consent before using you in my schemes.'

She smiled and met his gaze, and an understanding seemed to pass between them.

'I am sorry for it,' he said, and if she hadn't been leaning against the desk she was sure she would have fainted from shock.

His usually impassive face crumpled in indignity. 'Merlin, Granger, that's the second apology you've wheedled out of me this week.'

She couldn't help it – she laughed. 'Don't worry, I won't make a habit of it.'

'I should hope not,' he said, something like amusement dancing in his dark eyes. 'Now, kindly get out and leave me in peace,' he added, but there was no anger in it, only a sort of wry amusement.

Hermione hopped obediently off the desk. 'I'll see you at lunch, sir.'

'Yes, yes,' he said dismissively as he began to pour himself a cup of tea.

She wore a grin all the way to the first floor.

A/N: You don't want to know how long it took me to come up with a name for that bloody owl.