"Harry?" she asked, rolling her head over to look at him.
"Hey," he said, sitting up and reaching for her hand.
"What happened?" she asked.
"You had a fever," he said. "You've been out of it for a couple days."
"A couple days?" she asked. "What's today?"
"Tuesday," he admitted and she looked horrified. "But Madame Pomfrey said that you probably haven't been getting enough rest or nourishment and this was your body's way of forcing you to rest," he explained. "There isn't anything to worry about."
"There is plenty to worry about," she said, coughing a little. "What else did she have to say?"
"You aren't eating enough," he said. "She's going to regulate your diet." Hermione frowned.
"I'm just so sick to my stomach all the time," she said.
"There was one other thing," he said, whispering. "I overhead her and Snape talking about it when I came in to visit you. They think you might have to start going twice a week."
"It's getting bigger, isn't it? The cancer is spreading." She'd been worried about it – bone marrow was so aggressive and often spread easily to and from other organs.
"I think it's just not getting smaller," he said. "They didn't say anything about it spreading."
The meal time bells began to chime, the deep sounds reverberating through the thick stone walls. Harry looked over his shoulder to the doors.
"Ron said he would come by after dinner," Harry said. "But I have to go. I'm glad you woke up."
"Thanks for sitting with me Harry," she said, and rolled over to face the white curtains that separated her bed from the rest of the room. She heard his footsteps receding and the door close with a wooden clunk. She didn't know what to think. Shouldn't the procedure show some signs of success after the second treatment? She was young, resilient, of a sturdy background. She was only seventeen. Cancer wasn't something most seventeen year olds worried about. She heard someone coming towards her and then Madame Pomfrey pulled the curtains back, the plastic rings scraping against the metal pole loudly.
"Harry told me you'd rejoined us, Miss Granger," she said, almost warmly. "Good to see the whites of your eyes." Hermione didn't respond. "Well, I have your potions and your mail," she said, shrugging, and left her vials and a stack of letters on the table next to her bed. She sat up and drank her potions quickly, no longer grimacing at the taste. She was used to it. Then she grabbed the stack and flipped through it anxiously until she found was she was looking for – a response from her parents. Their silence had been unsettling – though she knew it was usually the time of year they took a holiday. They'd probably just been gone. She tore open the Muggle envelope (thin paper, as opposed to the thick parchment of the wizarding world) and was immediately comforted by the familiar sight of her mother's handwriting.
Hermione,
Dearest, there aren't words. I refuse to believe what you have written to us. There has to be a mistake. I've always been dubious about wizard medicine and I know you've explained why you think you should stay at school but I am begging you to come home and let Dr. White have a look at you. I want to have a good look at you as well. You cannot understand the horror of knowing your child is sick and not being there to take care of her. I hope someone is taking care of you there. I plan to write Headmaster Dumbledore as soon as I finish this letter to you. I never thought this would happen. I want to be the sick one, not you. Can we come to Hogwarts? Or to the hospital in London? What do you need? New clothes, medicines, candy, books, games? Let me know, I'll send you anything, my love. Write with more details. I am truly beside myself and your father hasn't said a word since I've told him. I love you, we both do.
Love,
Mum
She folded the letter carefully and hid it under her pillow. She knew that they would want her to come home. She hadn't wanted to at first – stopping her classes had been appalling enough. That was before, though, and now she considered moving home. Setting the issue of her safety aside for a moment, she imagined watching Wally pack up her trunk, she imagined climbing onto the train, pushing through the King's Cross barrier, climbing into her parent's Volvo, spending her days sleeping in her small, lavender bedroom, going to a Muggle hospital, taking pills not potions, getting radiation, not spells. Losing her hair. Checking into the stark white hospital where they would put her on IVs and slowly kill away all of her t-cells. Bone marrow transplants; thick needles invading her bones.
Well.
Plus, Voldemort would probably kill her there if the cancer didn't.
It wasn't long before Pomfrey let her floo back to her rooms. She didn't want to go to bed; she didn't want to write her mother back just yet. She wasn't hungry, she didn't feel like reading. The excitement she'd felt over her ISP seemed liked ages ago. She was officially depressed. She ran a bath in her tub. She decided against any bubbles or fragrances. They tended to irritate her skin these days and so she sat on the edge of the tub and watched if fill nearly to the brim with hot water. She automatically reached for her wand to perform a heating charm – it would make the water stay hot for hours – and she stopped herself just in time before performing. They'd told her she'd be bad at magic and that it would drain her. She'd believed them and hadn't done magic since. She didn't feel like calling Wally to do the simple spell for her. In a fit of defiance, she swished her wand and said the incantation to cast the spell.
A wispy bit of red light sputter from the end of the wand and she immediately felt dizzy. Well, at least she knew they weren't lying. She immediately regretted the rash choice. Had Professor Dumbledore ever lied to her before? She tried to shake it off. She drank some cool water from the sink faucet and removed her clothes slowly. She would just summon the elf when she wanted the water reheated, or just drain the tub and start again. Frankly, she planned to spend the whole afternoon in there.
She slid into the water hissing but acclimated to the hot water quickly. She always made the water as hot as possible – she didn't like to be cold. The water relaxed her tense, sore body. It also made her even more light headed and tired. The combination of the heat and her stupid attempt at magic was overloading her senses. She had the fleeting thought that she might not be able to get out of the tub by herself but she was determined to worry about that when the time came. She slunk down in the big tub and got her hair wet. The curls immediately fell straight and her hair reached her waist. It was quiet long these days, and inches were added when it wasn't sprung up into corkscrews.
She washed her hair – her shampoo smelled like lavender and was lovely but did nothing about keeping her awake – and then studied the ends floating in the now soapy water around her. It took a lot of shampoo and conditioner to keep up so much hair. She needed a hair cut. There were spells for that sort of thing but now she wondered if they might leave a bit early on their next trip to London so she could go to a Muggle salon and fix everything up. Her shaggy hair did nothing to add to an already unkempt appearance. She thought about dying it as well. It was against school rules to dye one's hair during the school year. Something she didn't understand but adhered to nonetheless. If someone wanted to have neon blue hair, why stop them? She'd never stray from nature but she'd always considered going to a deep, chestnut brown or maybe adding a little red into it. It was so mousy. She'd asked Tonks once about that rule and she'd smiled and said,
"I had it all sorts of colors and styles. I never dyed it so I wasn't breaking any rules. They couldn't do a thing," she'd smirked. Hermione studied her hair now. She could trim it herself with a pair of scissors – perhaps Ginny would help her with the back. The more she thought about it, the more she knew Professor Snape would never go for a salon. She would ask her mother to send her a box of Muggle dye. She would do it herself.
Satisfied with a project that was just rebellious enough and small enough for her to handle, she reached for the conditioner and liberally massaged it into her hair. She washed. She shaved. She pampered herself fully and then decided to just lie there for awhile, appreciating the quiet. As she was studying the frightful angle at which her ribs and hips poked out, she heard – faintly – knocking at the door of her portrait. It was probably Harry, Ron, and Ginny. Harry had said they might stop by to visit. She wasn't sad about not visiting them. All they did was stare at her with eyes full of pity. She didn't want their pity, she wanted their understanding.
The knocking continued and she heard Harry calling her name faintly. She pushed herself up onto her feet to hear better but the sudden upward motion made her so dizzy that she slipped and fell backwards. She hit the back of her head on the edge of the tub and slid under the cooling water, unconscious.
oooo
She felt someone lifting her up. She felt the water fall from her frame and soak into the itchy wool of the clothing around the arms that held her. She started to cough and cough and water was coming up and she could hardly spit it out for all the coughing. Why was she wet? What was happening? She felt the arms let her go – no! – and someone charmed her dry and pulled a blanket over her.
"Miss Granger!" She heard her name being called.
"Hermione!" Oh, she recognized Ginny's voice, high and desperate. She opened her eyes to look at her redheaded friend. She was a bit blurry, but there. Short and fiery Ginny, looking only marginally less distressed than she'd sounded.
"Hello," she said. She rolled her head around. "Professor Snape?" Was it the weekend already? But then, why was Ginny there?
"Miss Granger, how do you feel?" he asked, and leaned towards her, pushing his fingers into the mass of brown hair at the back of her head – the hair underneath was still damp despite the drying charm. Her head was cradled in the crook of this arm as his fingers softly probed her scalp.
"Ow," she said, faintly. "That hurts."
"You fell in the tub, you hit your head. Harry and Ron and I were knocking," Ginny said. "You didn't answer."
"In the tub?" she said. "Where are they?"
"In the living room," Snape said. "You were somewhat… indecent." He looked away. She looked down, saw that she was covered now.
"What are you doing here, then?" She asked Snape, trying to sit up but the hand in her hair moved swiftly to her shoulder and pushed her thin body back into the mattress. He was so close to her.
"I was walking by, and a lucky thing, too, for I was the only one who knew your password," he said, softly, his gaze settling on her eyes. She could smell peppermint tea on his breath, and it was not unpleasant. "Restricted Section," he said.
"I must have stood up too… I got dizzy," she said, whispering.
"You could have drowned," he said, sternly. He stood up straight, looked at Ginny who was watching this all with an unreadable expression. "Miss Weasley, go inform Potter and your brother that Miss Granger will be fine," he said. Ginny seemed a little reluctant to go but finally skirted out of the room under the unwavering gaze of her Potions professor. Snape turned back to Hermione, whose head was beginning to clear and who was now hugging the blanket more tightly around her. "We need to talk about a few things," he said.
"Perhaps you could… my robe is on that chair," she said, motioning to a thin, purple cotton robe that was draped over a chair.
"Of course," he said, handing it to her. He turned his back on her and she quickly pushed down the blanket and secured the robe around her. She ignored the fleeting thought that for a few seconds, she was naked in the same room as Snape. She cleared her throat and he turned around again. "Miss Granger, I wasn't just passing by. I was coming to speak with you about your treatments," he said.
"They aren't working," she whispered, touching the back of her head to see if she'd bled. It was tender, but her fingers came back clean.
"No. But, they are not failing you either. There is neither improvement nor decline," he said. "St. Mungo's suggests you come in twice a week for treatment."
It was just as Harry had over heard. She grimaced. It was so much work going there once a week – so much time for Snape to take off… traveling time, waiting for her to recover enough to come back to Hogwarts. It took all day, if not more. Last time she'd spent the night.
"It would be pointless for me to stay at Hogwarts. I'd have to admit myself," she said.
"Indeed," he agreed. He was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, and he looked a little damp still. She motioned to the chair where her robe had been and he nodded, and sat down. "You cannot leave Hogwarts."
"Wait, what? You just said…"
"It isn't safe. The Dark Lord knows of your illness," he said, quiet. She felt a thick sense of dread settle somewhere in the bottom of her empty stomach.
"How?" she whispered.
"I keep him updated on the activities of Harry Potter and his two best friends. He knows when I lie," he said and he actually sounded a little regretful. "It isn't safe for you to leave Hogwarts."
"I don't blame you," she said. "It's your job." He looked at her for a long moment, but didn't acknowledge the comment.
"There is an alternative," he continued. "When my mother was sick, we tried a variety of treatments to try to save her."
"We?" she interrupted and he gave her a sour look.
"My associate and I. She was old, and weak, and the attempts did not save her. I have been working on the cure ever since. I think that I have found a satisfactory balance of potions and charm work to eradicate the cancerous cells from your bones, Miss Granger."
"Are you saying you've cured cancer?" she asked, sitting up in earnest now. He scooted his chair closer to her bed side.
"I think, in your case, we could be successful. You are young and in the early stages of the disease. You are strong enough to withstand the intensity."
"Intensity?" she asked. "What could be more intense than the treatments I already endure?"
"This is not for the weak of will. You would have to be under my constant supervision. You need to receive treatment every hour, and then every day, and then every week, and so on. It is a long, constant process."
"What about your classes?" she asked.
"I would stop them for the duration," he said.
"Professor I couldn't ask you to do that," she said.
"I am doing it for the sake of research and finding a cure, Miss Granger. You happen to be the perfect candidate."
"Of course," she said. "I'd like to take a look at your research first."
"Very well," he said, though he didn't look very happy about it.
"Either way, though, it doesn't seem as if I have much of a choice." She looked a little overwhelmed. Then suddenly, as if a light had gone on in her attic, she squeaked, "Did you see me naked?"
"Yes," he said, a little surprised at her blunt question, but Snape was the sort of man who only lied when he needed to.
"I should have been more careful," she said, but mostly to herself, holding her robe more tightly around her.
"I need to go inform Headmaster Dumbledore of our decision," he said. "I will be by in an hour to help you get resituated."
"What do you mean resituated?"
"I told you, Miss Granger. You need to be under my constant supervision. You'll be moved to the dungeons." With that, he swept from her bedchambers and she still had a somewhat shocked expression when Harry, Ron, and Ginny came in.