The sound of two low voices came as a surprise to Hermione as she glided back through the walls of Professor Snape's suite. She'd left the room darkened, and now a faint candlelight glowed in the wall sconce near the doorway between bedroom and bath. Swiftly turning invisible, she cautiously advanced towards the voices, only to catch Professor Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey quietly discussing the unconscious man on the bed.

Despite her precaution, Dumbledore's blue eyes met hers over the mediwitch's shoulder and creased in a pleased smile. "Ah, Miss Granger. We were just wondering if Severus had someone to lend a hand and watch over him this evening."

Out of courtesy Hermione materialized, startling Poppy Pomfrey into clutching the neck of her dressing gown. "I suppose I'm watching over him," Hermione replied, somewhat at a loss. "He's only been back for a short while, long enough to make those," and she pointed towards the potion doses on his night table, "and crawl into bed."

The school nurse plucked one of the vials from the rack and held it up to the candle flame. "Hmm. I suppose he'd been drinking?" she asked sternly, and made an irritated clucking when Hermione nodded.

"Some window dressing is necessary, Poppy," the Headmaster reminded her. "Severus knows his limits."

Pomfrey ignored the man and pinned Hermione with a sharp look. "Was he able to keep it down?"

"The potion, yes. The whiskey, no."

"Hmph. Just as well," she commented. "He's done better than usual, this time. He seldom ever remembers to strain this glop."

Hermione said nothing, but Dumbledore gave her a long look over the top of his half-moon glasses. He also chose not to say anything, however, and instead turned to his companion. "Well, Poppy, it's getting late, and as you can see Severus is doing as well as can be expected. Now, you may not be as old as I, but we both need our sleep. Miss Granger, may I impose on you to keep an eye on Severus for us?"

"I have no objections," Hermione told him uncertainly, "but what should I watch for?"

"Sudden fever, violent nightmares, vomiting," Poppy answered promptly, as though this were a common occurrence. "It's two in the morning, now. If he happens to wake at any time before dawn, remind him to take a dose of the Braxdice potion. In any case, he's to take another as soon as he wakes. I'll be down to check on him just before breakfast."

Several hours later, Severus Snape did indeed begin stirring. Hermione guiltily replaced the book she'd been reading on a nearby shelf and materialized by the drapery at the head of his bed.

With a groan Snape rolled to one side and coughed several times, squinting into the faint light of the candle still burning in the wall sconce. When his black eyes focused on Hermione's pale outline, his upper lip curled in distaste.

"Dumbledore's been here, hasn't he?" Severus muttered. "He always leaves a watchdog in his wake."

"Humans need sleep," Hermione reminded him. "I don't."

Not bothering to reply to that, Severus reached a shaking hand out towards the rack. The tremors made the glass vial ring violently against the wire rack and Hermione swooped in to rescue the dose before it slipped through his fingers. He growled at her, but had little choice in accepting her help – it wasn't as though he could physically push her away.

He managed to swallow the thick liquid, his expression eloquently telegraphing his opinion of the taste before collapsing back again, eyes closed, his heavy breathing an indication of how much that small effort had cost him.

Eyes still closed, Severus pushed the covers down, then pulled them back up, his movements barely coordinated as he shifted uncomfortably. A faint sheen of sweat had appeared on his face, leaving his complexion waxy and sallow.

Without thinking, an instinct older than civilization and beyond the confines of the living prompted Hermione to put her hand on Severus' forehead to gauge his temperature, but she was unable to distinguish whether or not he had a fever. The gooey, sticky heat of a living body clung to her hand, but he felt no different to her senses than any other live one.

Severus moaned faintly, and she snatched her hand away. "I'm so sorry, Professor. Did that hurt?"

"S'wonnerful," he sigh, barely audible.

Unsure of herself, Hermione tentatively put her hand back on his forehead. Another relieved sigh rewarded her, and she steeled her nerve to withstand the distasteful sensation. If the cool effect of her phantom hand was a balm for a sick man, she would endure it.

For a while.

Alternating first one hand, then the other, Hermione was pleased when Snape's agitation slowly calmed, and he seemed to fall into a deeper sleep. Even after she withdrew her chilly touch, he lay quiet and still for several hours.

The tall taper had burned down to a mere guttering stub when he began to stir once more, his head tossing from one side to another and a half-intelligible murmur coming from his thin lips. He did not respond when Hermione called his name, and no matter how hard she tried she could not interpret his words. She caught Dumbledore's name once, at least she thought it was 'Albus,' though for all she knew it could have just as easily been 'bulbous' or 'hippopotamus.'

Leaning closer, she tried to bring her ear down closer to hear his voice. She miscalculated, however and a sudden toss of his head put his jaw right where her cheek hovered over him. Not having a physical body, her form had no resistance and his forehead went right through her own.

As sudden as a flash of lightning might reveal a dark room, Hermione caught a glimpse of a foggy island and a tall, dark-clad man, the image as clear in her mind as if she'd just seen it. She sat up abruptly, hovering over the restless man's bed, and the image was gone. Hermione stared down at him, wide-eyed. The glimpse she'd had of the man – Snape? – carried with it a sense of confusion and loss and terrific loneliness that tore like jagged shards inside her.

Severus had gone silent when her cheek had faded through his, but after a long moment, he began tossing again. His murmuring began again, protesting, almost angry in tone.

Gathering her nerve, Hermione leaned in once more, closing her eyes and turning her face to the side so that her cheek was so near his that she could feel the living aura of his body rising like an open sauna around her. His physical self took a sudden deep breath at the coolness of her immaterial form even as Hermione set her teeth against the heat, but her focus was on the island and its lone inhabitant.

Heavy fog lay in a gray blanket around her when Hermione became aware again. The night air was cool and moist against her face, and beneath her feet the ground was spongy and damp. Gravity was a novel concept after having been accustomed to being a ghost; she bounced on the balls of her feet to test her weight in this reality. That sensation quickly lost its appeal when black, noisome water welled up over her slipper-clad toes and left her feet wet and cold.

Stepping gingerly out of the puddle she'd just made, Hermione looked around for any landmarks – trees, a road, or most especially a tall man whose dream she was currently invading. Vision, however, was extremely limited, and the few yards she could make out in any direction lacked any features except more of the boggy ground. Frowning, she tucked her hair behind her ears and listened intently.

A faint sound drew her in one direction, and within a few yards she noticed an outline in the gray nothing. Some ten steps later, a form coalesced out of the fog; a tall man wearing a white shirt and black trousers. His back was to her but his thin physique and black hair left no doubt whom she had found.

"Professor Snape?" she called tentatively, but the man did not turn. All his attention seemed focused on the banks of fog before him, and frustration was evident in the set of his shoulders. His boots had worn a short arc in the damp earth as he paced back and forth, and it wasn't until Hermione came up beside him that he even glanced at her.

"You're not real," he told her dismissively, turning back to his searching.

Hermione had no response to that; she was too busy trying to take in the difference between the professor she knew and the man before her. He seemed taller, his hair no longer greasy but soft raven-black wings framing his long face. And his face… it took Hermione several long moments to realize that she was looking at a much younger man – or was he? No, not necessarily younger.

Her own experience with shaping her own phantom reality suddenly clarified her understanding as to what Snape's internal self-image signified. This was Severus Snape as he remembered himself to be – before he became a Death Eater, before his life had spiraled out of control and forced him down a path of successively bad choices and worse consequences, which had aged him far more than the past two decades should have.

"Professor Snape," Hermione tried again. "Is something wrong?"

Again, he ignored her, peering into the fog-shrouded distance. His agitation was growing, a non-stop undertone of hopeless cursing issuing from between clenched teeth as he paced back and forth.

"Professor. Professor Snape. Severus!"

At his given name, he finally responded and turned towards her. "What do you want?" he snapped.

"Where are we?"

"I don't know where we are," he admitted. "But I'm supposed to be somewhere else."

"Where?"

"I don't… don't remember. I need to go somewhere. You don't remember, do you? Of course not, you were never any good at remembering things."

Hermione stifled a sharp retort, knowing it probably would not help. He most likely didn't even recognize her. "Maybe I can help you remember. Did it have anything to do with your meeting?"

"I don't think so. Prefect meetings are always such a waste of time, I doubt there was any need to attend in the first place."

"It wasn't a prefect meeting, Professor. Do you remember what happened tonight?"

He frowned, thinking. "There wasn't a staff meeting," he began doubtfully. One hand strayed to his left sleeve, where she knew he kept his wand, but nothing was there for his searching fingers to find.

"Were you wanting Professor Dumbledore? I thought I heard you call his name, earlier." Hermione did not elaborate on when or where he'd muttered that name.

"Albus? Why would I want to talk to him, unless it was something…" Severus trailed off, and unexpectedly made a choking sound. His face went pale, and a moment later he grabbed at his stomach as though mortally wounded.

"Professor!" Hermione called, but he sank to his knees, hunched over in pain. Out of reflex she grabbed his arm in an effort to keep him from falling over, and to her immense shock he was solid. Slumping heavily against her, the man heaved a shaky breath, his body shuddering in agony.

"Make it stop," he gasped. "Please, stop. No more, please – I'm begging you," he rasped, almost sobbing.

"Stop it," Hermione ordered him, doing her best to shake his narrow but still solid frame. "This isn't real, Professor. Severus," she corrected. "This is a dream, Severus. It's not real."

The man in her arms shuddered again, but some of the hard tension leaked out of his body. Hermione wrapped her arms around him and repeated her words again and again, until his shoulders stopped shaking.

"Mum?" he murmured questioningly.

Hermione glanced down at herself and realized she was wearing an old fashioned traditional witch's robe, but even as she watched it faded back to the robes she usually manifested. The man in her arms pulled away from her far enough to see her properly, suspicion on his face.

"You're not my mother," Snape told her flatly, before she could respond. "Mother's dead."

"No, I'm not," Hermione agreed evenly, carefully directing his attention to their conversation and not his previous agony. "You're only dreaming. See?" She put her hand on his arm where it wrapped around his middle. "There's nothing wrong, Severus. This is only a dream, and there's nothing wrong."

Snape hesitantly allowed Hermione to draw him upright once more until he stood, swaying slightly. She kept her hands on his arm and shoulder, hoping to keep his attention focused on herself and not the fathomless, vaguely menacing fog.

"This is a dream. There is only your will, and the world is what you make it, Severus. No pain, no unhappiness."

His hands loosened finally, and mirrored her own hold on his arms, lightly clasping her elbows. He looked down at her, at the circle they made with their interlocking grasp. She could feel the solid bone and muscle of his arms, feel the grip of his long fingers on her arms.

"I'm still lost," he told her. The uncertainty was still present in his deep, velvety voice, but the urgency and pain was missing.

"It doesn't matter," Hermione replied. "You're safe here. You can rest, now."

His black hair swung back and forth as he disagreed. "You can never rest, not really," he said hollowly. His long features were shrouded by his black hair as he looked down at her. "You must always keep watch. If you let your guard down even for a moment, they'll get you."

Hermione did not want to know who 'they' were; 'they' could be any number of horrors in Severus Snape's imagination and she didn't want to take the chance of stirring any sleeping monsters out of his psyche. She had not doubt that the man in front of her had more than enough real experience with very bad things.

"I'll watch over you while you sleep," she told him instead. "You can trust me. I won't let anything happen to you."

"You won't?" he asked, almost suspiciously. "Why not?"

"Because," she replied, casting about for something convincing. "That's why I'm here. To watch over you."

Surprisingly, he seemed to accept that. With a tired shrug, he sat down on a particularly thick roll of fog, which turned out to be an old, squashy chaise of unknown vintage. A decrepit rug had been thrown over it, any design lost in the stains and wear. It looked terrifically uncomfortable, but Snape lay down on it as though it were a featherbed and closed his eyes.

Hermione stood over him in the gray expanse, waiting for monsters, but within moments the gray faded away completely, and she was once again hovering over Snape's bed in his chilly dungeon rooms. The man himself was quiet, however, and in a deep sleep.

Feeling more than a little shaken and terribly unsure of herself, Hermione wrapped her arms around herself and retreated to the ceiling.

&&&&&

"Not that one, either. I've read it already."

Twenty-four hours of enforced bed rest had resulted in a much healthier Potions Master, but had not sweetened the man's demeanor. If anything, Poppy's orders had made him even worse than usual, and if it weren't for her promise to the mediwitch Snape would be left alone to fetch his own damned reading materials. Especially since it was well past curfew and Hermione would rather have been patrolling the halls during the night rather than playing nursemaid to a cranky middle-aged man.

Hermione controlled the impulse to throw it at him. "Yes, Professor, I'm sure you have. After all, it is your book. You've probably read all these books, but unfortunately I can't pull any new material out of my bum!"

"I had no idea ghosts were so temperamental," Snape observed mildly, but made no effort to take the offered text.

Comments about pots and kettles sprang to the tip of her tongue. "I can always fetch the Third Year essays still sitting on your desk," she reminded him tartly. As she expected, he showed no enthusiasm for the offer of homework to grade.

"Give me the book."

Handing it over, Hermione gathered the rest of the rejected reading material and settled on the far side of his room. One in particular had caught her attention, and she was quickly absorbed in the subject. She ignored the rasps of impatience and page flicking across the room, though it actually gave her a small thrill of pleasure to know her mere presence was so irritating. If she could actually be banned from his rooms, her spineless agreement to Dumbledore's request would be nullified and she could escape.

"If you really wanted to be helpful, Miss Granger, you'd bring my wand back here."

"I'm not touching that thing," she told him. "It burns. Madame Pomfrey said you can have it back when you're well enough to fetch it yourself. And it's no use asking the house elves," she added when he inhaled preparatory to shouting out to the elf services. "She's already given them orders, too."

His breath fizzled out into dire mutterings, but Hermione paid no attention to that or to his glare. While his temper was back to normal, Severus Snape was still wobbly as a newborn Thestral and would be going without his wand for the next day or so.

"Why don't you go and bother Hagrid?" Snape finally asked, when glaring at her failed to get a response.

"Because," she replied, still reading. "I told Madame Pomfrey and the Headmaster I'd stay here tonight to keep an eye on you, in case you need anything." Hermione shot a significant look at the books littering the floor. "Besides the fact he's probably out tromping in the Forbidden Forest, every time I do try talking to him, he starts to get all weepy and choked up and can't carry on a decent conversation."

Snape snorted, a harsh burst of humor that came out unexpectedly. "Hagrid was a Gryffindor, Miss Granger. Flexible thinking is not as much a hallmark of that house as is sheer bone-headedness."

Hermione glared at him over her book, only to see a smug expression on his face as he finally got a reaction out of her. Before she could comment, he went on.

"Speaking of bone-headed, are you still avoiding Sir Nicholas?"

"No, not any longer. He doesn't require as much discouragement as he did."

"As I just stated, Miss Granger. Gryffindors are bone-headed, not to mention clueless, and Nearly Headless Nick is the epitome of Gryffindor. I would be surprised to find avoidance was a viable option for discouragement."

"I'd already realized that, Professor, and tried a different option. Distraction."

"How so?" he asked, as if genuinely interested. Boredom would do that, she supposed, although she suspected the Slytherin in him was always interested in way to manipulate others.

"Myrtle," she replied succinctly.

"The one in the bathroom?"

"Mmm," Hermione agreed absently. "She's finally begun to realize that she doesn't actually have acne any longer, and her complexion has cleared up nicely. I can only hope for as much success on the rest of her appearance. Last week I caught her with her hair in a rather frightening beehive shaped arrangement and the most inappropriate clothing!"

"Really," Snape drawled.

Attempting to keep her smile under control, she answered. "It seems she found one of those horrid racy magazines left behind in the boys' dormitory. I made her change into something more appropriate."

"Not Slytherin dormitory, I hope," he said, horrified.

"Hufflepuff."

"Yes, it's always the quiet ones. The Slytherin boys consider themselves too sophisticated to read pornography, and the Ravenclaw boys seldom even realize girls are worth looking at until they're nearly finished with school."

Hermione waited for a comment on Gryffindor, but surprisingly it did not come. Instead, Severus settled back into his pillows and actually appeared to be attempting a civil conversation. Or a civil gossip session, which this was rapidly becoming.

"So, how goes your efforts at distraction?"

"Well, Nick thinks Myrtle was terribly brave for confronting Olive Hornby, which made Myrtle light up like a Catherine wheel."

He nodded once, as if agreeing.

"And when I made sure Myrtle joined us at the Baron's monthly meeting, Nick overheard Myrtle declaring that he was the most dashing, handsome fellow she'd ever seen. Which might have held more meaning if Myrtle had left her bathroom more often in the past fifty years."

"Isn't she a bit young for you to be foisting off on Nearly Headless Nick?" His voice seemed to be slurring a bit, and Hermione glanced over to see that his eyelids were starting to droop. Trust romantic machinations to bore a man into slumber.

"Well, she's sixteen. In Nick's day, five hundred years ago, that was plenty old enough. Or if you count it another way, she's seventy-odd, since she's been hanging about in that loo for, what, more than fifty years now? I'd say she was due for a good snog."

Severus gave a non-committal grunt. "And what does the Bloody Baron think of all your matchmaking efforts?"

"Oh, he's always good for a little romance, the old sot. He's worse than Professor Dumbledore sometimes."

"I don't think the Baron could match Dumbledore's flair for the dramatic," Severus commented.

Hermione chuckled. "You're talking about a ghost who delights in wearing a blood-stained robe day in and day out. Don't let those fool you, Professor, he only wears them because he likes the sensational effect. I heard it from Dead Deirdre and the Wailing Widow that he was actually stabbed only once. In his sleep, no less."

"Who'd Dead Deir- only once?" Snape bit out in disbelief. "That old fraud! Since I was a first year, he's been terrorizing students with stories of how he was assassinated in a political plot at the ministry!"

"Nope," she replied smugly. "It seems his mistress caught him sleeping with his wife."

"Shouldn't that be the other way around?"

"Apparently, his wife was quite understanding in that regard. It was his bad luck to get wrapped up with a girlfriend who was possessive.

"Are men always so stupid?" she asked dinengenuously. "Between Nick and the Baron and Peeves, I'm starting to wonder."

"Most of us," he admitted absently. "Something about the opposite sex makes most men a bit barmy."

"Well, that settles it, I guess. I haven't missed anything."

"You haven't missed..." Snape colored suddenly, the slight flush overwhelming the jaundice and making him look much healthier. "I see. I was under the impression you and Mr. Weasley had... educated each other in that regard."

Hermione gave a theatrical sigh. "No. Alas. I've been cut down in my youth, never to experience that pinnacle of experiences." She put a dramatic hand to her temple, then ruined it by giggling.

"Well, that's not strictly true," Severus mused. "You can obviously interact with other ghosts... Oh for Merlin's sake! It's the middle of the night, and I'm discussing your love life with you. Go. Now. I need rest, and you're not helping."

&&&&&

Another night and full day spent in bed was sufficient to see Severus Snape well enough leave his bed, or at least sufficiently fed up that he was motivated to do so. His body proved to be less willing, and he found his usual brisk stride was reduced to an unsteady amble. Rather than dressing completely he pulled his teaching robes on over his nightshirt, buttoning it up to the neck with hands that trembled only a little bit. He deliberately waited until after curfew before attempting to leave his rooms; the last thing he wanted was a student to see him doddering along like a wizard closing in on his second century.

As he'd expected, Dumbledore had cajoled Sinestra into substituting for him, and also as expected, the resulting papers were stacked high on his desk. The professor usually resorted to assigning essays as a way of keeping students out of trouble without causing herself any more work than was absolutely necessary, and it was highly effective in short durations. Severus never dared stay ill longer than a few days, however, out of dread for what state he'd find his classroom if she were actually required to teach.

The difference this time, when he made it to his office, was Hermione Granger sitting at his desk, a brilliant purple ostrich feather quill in her ghostly hand, and a frown of concentration on her pale brow. He had just enough strength left to lower himself into one of his own guest chairs before his legs gave out completely.

"Where the hell is my wand?" he said by way of greeting.

"Good evening, Professor Snape," Hermione replied evenly. "It's in here." She pulled open the top drawer beside her, but made no motion to retrieve it.

"What was it you said last night, about why you couldn't you get it? I thought you had fully mastered the manipulation of the physical."

"It burns," she replied, flipping over another sheet of parchment.

"Why?"

"No idea. I think it's because of the magic in it."

Saving his breath for his efforts, Severus managed to get out of his chair and retrieve the length of pale gray wood. Without his wand, he'd felt naked despite his current dress, and tucking it back into the pocket of his robes was a relief. He had already settled into his previous chair before he considered the thought of evicting Hermione from his usual seat, and blamed it on his fatigue. Catching his haunt's brief questioning glance, he floundered for something to distract her.

"What about the magic?" he asked.

"I have a theory about the polarity of magic, and how ghosts and live ones – and their wands – are on opposite ends of the polarity, but I don't think it's a discussion we should begin when you're barely able to stand up straight."

He gave her a dark look. "I'm perfectly fine," he objected. "And what do you think you're doing with my papers?"

This, apparently, was what Hermione was waiting for him to berate her over, and her reply was cautious. "I'm marking your homework essays. Don't worry, no one will know you didn't do these yourself," she assured him. "This is a Weasley Wizard Wheezes prototype. It's designed to mimic handwriting."

"That sounds like an idea suspiciously open to abuse."

"Well…" Hermione hedged. "The twins did have some trouble getting it licensed, so they adopted an idea from the Marauder's Map. It won't write out wills or anything serious, it only writes insults. Since they're your papers, I doubt anyone will notice the difference."

"Which ones are you working on?"

"The Second Years. I thought I'd leave the older students' papers until the end."

"I usually work the other direction," he commented. "Those at least have a rudimentary grasp of spelling."

"As far as I can tell, Professor, none of your students have a grasp of spelling. Or grammar."

Severus snorted in agreement, watching her pale fingers and the violently purple pen. He watched her for several minutes.

"Why are you doing this, Miss Granger? You've invaded my classroom, my workroom, now my desk has been commandeered."

"You need help," she answered simply.

"I need nothing from you or anyone else."

"All right, consider the fact that perhaps I have the need to help you."

He shot her a look of disbelief and skepticism, which made her glance away before setting her chin obstinately.

"Have you ever lost a book you really wanted to finish?" she asked quietly. "Gone off and left it who knows where, and never got to find out how the story ended?"

Severus nodded once, indicating he was listening.

"I feel like a book that's been left behind. My friends have all gone off, and I've been forgotten. Everything that I wanted to become, everything I might have accomplished. It will never be finished, now.

"If all I have left to contribute is tutoring a few students and doing your scut work, then that at least is better than nothing. My fingers won't shrivel up from washing cauldrons, and if I can spare you time to recover and the students a few lashes of your sarcasm, why shouldn't I?

"Unless you don't trust me to do this properly," she added uncertainly.

A heavy silence filled the room, and Hermione waited, determined not to cringe at the inevitable retort. Long moments passed, but Severus remained silent. His black eyes were impassive, but eventually he took a deep breath and pulled himself to his feet.

"Miss Granger, I don't think you know how to do anything improperly."

He left, his footsteps still lacking his usual vigor, but his stature was upright and, surprisingly, his heart felt lighter than he remembered it being for a very long time.