Christmas evening.
Hermione sat in an armchair next to the fireplace in Gryffindor tower. She had been staring aimlessly at the same page in her book for the past half an hour.
The people around her were all happy, carefree. Chatting about what they were going to do with the rest of their holidays, about what presents they got, about anything. Harry and Ron, sitting on opposite sides of her, were absorbed in an enthusiastic conversation about Quidditich.
Suddenly, she snapped her book shut and sat up straighter, startling Harry and Ron out of conversation.
"What's wrong? Did you see something?" asked Harry anxiously, craning his head around.
Hermione wordlessly gestured toward one of the windows, where an owl perched on the sill. It was determinedly pecking at the windowpane, but was drowned out in the din of the common room.
She got up and unlatched the window. The bird, a regal–looking barn owl, swooped in and landed on the back of the chair Hermione had previously occupied. Several heads in the common room turned to watch the owl's flight, but they soon turned back to their own conversations.
Ron reached over and plucked the scroll from the outstretched, waiting leg of the owl. Immediately, with a soft hoot, it glided back out the window Hermione held open.
"Blimey, Hermione, it's for you!" said Ron, examining the scroll. "I wonder who it's from . . . your friend Krum, perhaps?"
Hermione sighed, irritated. "Even if it was from him, it wouldn't be any of your concern. Besides, that was a school owl." She snatched the scroll from his hands, broke the wax seal, and unrolled it on one of the nearby tables.
"It's from Dumbledore," Hermione mumbled, brows furrowed. "What does he want me to do?"
"Well," said Harry insistently. "Go on. What does he want?"
"He wants me to– oh, my God."
Madam Pomfrey had taken the bandages off of his hands. Even the gentle draft of air circulating through the room caused an unbearable pain against his hands.
"How does it feel, Severus?" asked Dumbledore, peering down at him anxiously.
His vision was as blurred as it was when he woke up, but even the hazy outlines that were his hands and the sickly color and smell was more than enough. Severus didn't even bother responding to Dumbledore's question.
The smell was subtle, the smell of meat left in the freezer too long then allowed to thaw.
"My hands?" he asked hoarsely. "That smell?"
"Yes, Severus."
Nausea hit him like a tidal wave. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes.
Severus had managed to get a vague glimpse of one of his hands, disgustingly colored dark red and purple, even blackening toward his fingertips. Where he had clawed at the splintery windowsill, skin hung in discolored strips that Madam Pomfrey had not yet gotten to trim away.
Madam Pomfrey had finally come over, carrying bandages, warm water, and a few small bottles.
"Good evening, Professor," she said, setting her materials on his bedside table. "How are you feeling?"
Again, he ignored the question. "Evening? What day is it?"
"It's four o'clock, Professor. Today is Christmas day. This might hurt a bit," added Madam Pomfrey, peeling a pussy mess of a bandage from the palm of his hand.
Dumbledore rested one of his cool hands against Severus's forehead, restraining him as much as feeling for temperature.
"He's quite hot, Poppy. A few more blankets should do him nicely," Dumbledore said gently.
"Of course, in a moment, Albus. Just let me finish getting the rest of these bandages of his hands. It must hurt terribly, poor dear."
"You can say what you like when I'm not conscious, but kindly stop talking like I'm not here and like I'm a toddler," Severus growled, head clearing enough for coherent thought but still fuzzy.
Madam Pomfrey pursued her lips and continued to work. "He can't be that hurt. Listen to him talk." She had now started to pour the water slowly over his hands.
"So what's wrong with me this time?" Severus asked in a would-be casual, still raspy and vague, voice.
"Frostbite," Madam Pomfrey said.
Severus slumped back down in his pillows. "Thank God it wasn't anything serious."
"Wasn't anything serious?"she repeated, shaking her head. "There are three degrees of frostbite, Professor, third being the worst. You have third degree here. Bordering on gangrene. Heavens, you wouldn't even have hands if you were a Muggle."
Frowning, Severus said, "That can't be right; it couldn't be that bad. I was only gone for a couple days."
"You spent the night in a drift of snow with your hands quite literally frozen, Severus," Dumbledore said. "And we don't know how much happened before last night, even."
"Fine. How much is fixable? Will my hands be amputated, or will I just die?" he asked thickly, his words still slightly slurred together.
Dumbledore sighed. "I really wish you wouldn't joke about things like this. Your hands won't be amputated and you won't die. But until Poppy sees it to be fit, you can't use your hands for anything. Salves and the likes can be used to speed it up, of course, but that's all."
Frostbite kills living cells. Magic has its limits; it can't help dead cells. It can't help dead anything.
"You should have full function in about three weeks."
"Three weeks? I have class in one week. I'm a Potions Master. I use my hands for my job. I can't not use my hand," Severus said sharply, though talking so loudly increased the throb in his head.
"It will only take longer and be more painful if you try to use them before they are healed."
"What am I supposed to do, then? Just cancel my classes?"
"Of course not, that would be absurd. I've found you a helper, Severus," Dumbledore said calmly, trying to soften the imminent blow. He ignored his expression of growing dismay.
"You don't need to worry. She's perfectly capable. Top of your NEWT class, I believe."
Severus suddenly felt as he had when he had caught a smell of his hands. "No. Absolutely not, Albus. I will die first. Madam Pomfrey, take out your saws right now and cut my hands off."
It was Dumbledore's turn to be dismayed. "You're overacting a tad. Miss Granger is an admirable student and very respectful. She's also the one who found you. If she hadn't, you would probably still be on Hagrid's porch."
"Hagrid's porch?" Severus said, momentarily distraught. "Granger found me? Wait, no. That's not the point. The point is that I refuse to have her helping me. If I have help, fine, but not her.
Dumbledore tugged thoughtfully at his beard. "The only way that would happen is if she refused the offer. And I can't see that happening."
By that time, Madam Pomfrey had finished re-bandaging his hands. It had hurt quite badly, though not as badly as Severus had anticipated. Any pain he did feel he funneled toward Dumbledore and his ridiculous idea. It at least helped him clear his mind more.
"Any rational minded student would refuse an offer to work in close quarters with me. Damn it, I don't need the help."
"But you said only a moment ago yourself that your whole job revolves around using your hands. You couldn't possibly make potions swathed in cloth," Dumbledore countered, using Severus's own words against him.
Severus knew defeat. He knew it well. But that didn't mean he'd concede.
"No," he said stubbornly. He tried to cross his arms but winced and gave up when they brushed against his body. "What would it look like to the rest of the student body?"
"What is it supposed to look like? Stories about what happened to you will be around the school like wildfire when you show up in your classes next week. It won't matter, Severus," Dumbledore said.
Madam Pomfrey had come back and threw a few more blankets on Severus.
"You're fevered," she explained, and left again.
Severus stared up at Dumbledore defiantly. "I don't have a choice, do I?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Fine. Fine, just get me some painkilling potions and something mind-altering, and it will all be just great." He put a nasty emphasis on his last word, spitting it out like a curse.
In spite of the situation, Dumbledore allowed himself a small, compassionate smile. "You'll be fine. It will be a learning experience for both of you, I'm sure."
Severus snorted.
Dumbledore rested a hand on Severus's shoulder briefly. "Sometime tomorrow, come to my office and we can discuss the finer points of what happened."
Severus had almost forgot about that part, but he didn't respond. He nodded shortly and turned over on his side, angry over the new assistant forced onto him.
Madam Pomfrey came back out of the storeroom, carrying a few more potions. She stumbled slightly on her long robe.
"Honestly, if this was a business, between you and Harry Potter I could have already retired," she said to herself as she gave the potions to the simmering professor.
Hermione stared at the letter, mouth open in shock.
"What does it say, Hermione?"
"Come on, tell us!"
Harry and Ron grabbed for the letter, but she pulled it out of their reach.
"I can't believe this!" she said, uncertain of how to feel about it.
Finally Harry's Quidditch reflexes overpowered her and he snatched it away from her. Ron scrambled behind him and read the letter, too.
They both turned to stare at her in horror.
"That's worse than Occlumency with him, Hermione. Wow," said Harry in awe, shaking his head.
"I'm glad I'm not you," Ron said, sounding disgusted at the very thought. "I couldn't work with that bastard. I can't even stand him in class. What are you going to do?"
Hermione bit her lip. "I don't know, you guys . . ."