She felt brittle. She was afraid to go anywhere alone – walk anywhere too fast. What if she were to trip and land awkwardly on the stone paths of Hogwarts? Would her bones shatter? They would crack, at least. One of the many daily potions she took was Skele-grow. The deep green potion was a pain-killer and that one was her favorite. She wasn't allowed to have it as much or as often. Logically she understood that she could easily become addicted to it, but the way her body cramped up sometimes. She could hardly move when that happened and only that green, liquid cool would ease it.

The dungeons were always damp and dark. She didn't go above ground anymore. She was like a ghost, a crying former student trapped in a u-bend. It seemed like years ago when she would bound up and down stairs on her nightly prefect rounds. Decades ago that she was worrying about her O.W.L.s. The only person who saw her was Professor Snape. He came in every hour to administer new potions or cast new spells.

She'd been surprised with the move. She'd expected rooms much like the ones they'd given her when she'd left her dorm. She'd expected privacy. Instead, Wally packed only clothes in her overnight bag and left most of her books and trunk in the guest quarters. It wasn't like they needed the space – Hogwarts rarely had guests. She flooed into Snape's office and he led her to a small room that was off of his private lab. If she'd been well, she would have marveled at the private lab – so much superior to the workbenches in the classroom but now all she could do was vaguely register it as she was led into what was going to be her home for the next three months.

The room was small and sparse. It had two twin beds pushed against the opposite walls. In between them was a wooden nightstand with one drawer. There were two doors – she assumed one as a bathroom and the other a closet. On one of the beds was her duffle bag. She looked at Snape who was standing behind her. He answered her unspoken question.

"At the beginning of the treatment, I will need to see you every hour. The other bed is for me." She chose not to respond. She just moved into the room and sat gingerly on the edge of the far bed. She'd read his notes. She knew what was going to come. For the beginning of the treatment she wouldn't be herself. She would be out of it – he predicted hallucinations, fever dreams, and the suchlike. As her body healed and acclimated, she would come back down and become more and more lucid as the time between treatments lengthened. The treatments were to actually remove all the marrow in her bones and coax new, uninfected marrow to grow in its place. She would be much worse and weaker before she got better.

They got started at once.

She had vague, fragmented memories of the first month. She was aware that she was in the dungeon room and that Snape came and went and that she had to sit up and drink potions. She remembered the light coming out of the end of his long, thin, dark wand and shooting into her, wrapping its willowy heat around and around her bones. She remembered him chanting, his velvety voice pushing the magic out of him and on to her. The whole room came alive with his power – draining him to keep her alive. She remembered afterwards, after the casting was over. He would take a potion – for energy – and then he would collapse on the bed.

Sometimes she just went to sleep afterwards. Sometimes the magic didn't take well and she screamed and writhed and he had to hold her arms and legs down so that she didn't hurt herself. Then he would smooth her hair back from her face and beg her to sleep.

"You won't heal if you don't sleep," he would say. She remembered him saying it again and again. She didn't want to disappoint him. She closed her eyes.

Then he started to come less. She only saw him when he came in to administer her treatments. It was every hour for so long and then, suddenly, once a day. She saw him come into the room.

"Hello," she said.

"Miss Granger," he said. "You're awake." She nodded, and sat up. "How do you feel?"

"Like I could use a shower," she said. "A little hungry."

"That's to be expected. The worst of the treatment, phase one, has ended."

"And?" she asked.

"It seems to be working. There are no longer any cancerous cells left in your body. Now it is a matter of growing healthy cells back," he explained.

"Who is teaching your classes?" she asked. "I keep forgetting to ask you." He stared at her, as if deciding to tell her.

"Remus Lupin," he said, finally. "Not that he was ever any good at potions."

"He's a member of the Order, though," she pointed out and he nodded.

"Indeed." They were quiet for a moment. "I'm afraid it's time, Miss Granger." She nodded, and he sat at the edge of her bed, fishing his wand from his robes.

"Professor Snape?" she said, putting her hand on his arm, stilling it. "Thank you." He didn't respond.

oooo

Time had no meaning for Hermione anymore. There was only the pain and the hours in between. At least now, when she woke up, she knew who she was. She started eating again, instead of drinking nutritional supplements. He would bring her bowls of soup, mugs of tea, and bowls of oatmeal or applesauce. She ate slowly. She went to the bathroom by herself.

She stood looking in the mirror. She could hardly recognize the reflection staring back. The gaunt face, colorless skin, wild, knotted hair.

She asked Snape for a pair of scissors and he watched impassively from the doorway as she chopped her hair off nearly to the scalp, leaving only a few inches. She looked even more like a ghost. Like a skeleton, like someone toeing the line of the living.

"Not much of an improvement," he said.

"It will grow back," she said. "I'd like to take a shower or a bath. I know you've been using cleansing charms, and I appreciate that but it's never quite the same." She faltered at how to say the next thing. "Look, we both know I'm not strong enough to do anything on my own. I have a bathing suit in my bag…"

"Put it on," he said. She nodded, knowing better than to upset him with gratitude. The suit, a one piece, didn't fit well at all but he ran her the bath and helped her in and left her alone. When she called for him, he came in quietly. She wasn't ready to get out quiet yet, though. She was just lonely. There were bubbles in the water so he could only see her head and the top of her knobby knees anyway.

"How much longer, do you think?" she asked.

"Whenever you're ready to get out," he said, looking anywhere but her.

"I meant until I get my life back," she said, softly.

"There is another month of treatment followed by another month of observation. You'll need time to gain some weight and get your strength back – physically and magically," he said. "So, some time left still." He loosened his top frock coat and removed it – the steamy room was moist and warm. He was only in his white shirt, black vest, and black slacks. His sleeves were rolled up to the forearms. Not enough to see the dark mark, though.

"When can I see my friends again?"

"When you are better," he snapped. "I'm sure you've not noticed that we're quarantined down here. No one in or out."

"Why?" she asked, sitting up. He could see the loose red straps of the bathing suit on her narrow shoulders.

"Infection. You have practically no immune system right now," he said. "A cold could kill you."

"I should like to write them, then. My parents, too," she said. He looked away again.

"I have been keeping your parents updated on your condition but I will gladly pass that task to you if you are able, now." She couldn't imagine what he'd said to her parents.

"Have they written back?" she asked, eager for outside contact, eager for the love of her family.

"Yes," he said. "Are you ready?" She nodded and he removed his vest so only his cotton shirt would get wet. Cotton was easier to charm dry than wool. He scooped her out easily and carried her to the bed.

"I'm mortified by this entire situation, I think you should know," she said, as he charmed her dry and handed her a robe.

"We both knew what would happen," he said. "No need to dwell on the details when the big picture is what is important. Rest for a while." So she did.

When he came in at dinnertime, he didn't have dinner on the usual wooden tray. He helped her into a wheelchair that he had following him. A wizarding wheel chair bewitched to move without having to manually spin it. He settled her in it and she followed him through a maze of doorways into what seemed to be his private sitting room. He situated her near the fire and handed her a stack of letters – her parent's letters. They were very polite. They spoke of her, mostly. Questions about the treatment, her weight, whether she was coherent. She wished she could read his responses. She was already drafting a long response in her head – her eyes glazed over slightly and her lips moved silently as she mouthed the salutations she would soon put to paper.

"I'll get you some parchment and ink," he said after she had eaten something. He rose from the remnants of his meal and started to dig through a desk across the room. The fire was warm in a comforting sort of way. She could feel her now short, ragged hair start to curl up as it dried.

"I didn't really think this hair thing through," she said, reaching up and feeling how some areas were longer.

"I'll clean it up while you write," he offered.

"I don't expect you to be my nursemaid," she said, surprised at the willingness he was showing for doing things for her. He sneered at her and disappeared to retrieve the scissors. She wrote the letter quickly though her hand was not as steady as it once had been. Her script slanted and was uneven on the page. The simple task tired her out. She wondered if she would ever not be tired again. It was awkward when Snape, tall and looming, stood behind her and each snip of the scissors – the sound of metal scraping metal – made her flinch.

"Hermione, hold still," he barked. She froze, curiously.

"What did you say?" she asked.

"Hold still," he repeated, as a shower of her hair fell around them. She'd heard that part, but Snape had never called her by name before. Not her first name, anyhow. She decided not to point it out lest he never do it again. She liked it, for some reason. She rolled 'Severus' around in her mind. She would never be so bold, but she thought it was a name well suited for him. Angular and austere, yes, but elegant and charming as well. He set the scissors down on the arm of the wheelchair and she felt his fingers probe her scalp. He came around the front of her and peered at her, checking everything was even. She stared at his face back. "Well," he said, standing. "A brave look but not as dire as I first suspected." This was high praise from him and she smiled.

"You could stand a trim yourself," she said. He looked at her from under arched brows.

"Perhaps when you are stronger you will return the favor," he said. She blushed – it stood out brightly against the unhealthy pallor of her skin – and finished up the letter. In lieu of more conversation and the almost assured distain that would arise if she interrupted his reading, she wrote to Harry and Ron as well. When the three letters were folded neatly on her lap, she looked over to him.

"I'm quite tired," she said, and he looked up – noticed the circles beneath her eyes and her sagging posture.

"You should have said something earlier," he said, moving to put her to bed.

"It was nice to be up and about," she said. He led the chair back to her small, dingy room and he helped her into bed. She took her potions (no green one tonight, despite the way all her muscles felt like they would spend the night cramping) and he sat on the edge of the opposite bed and watched her until she fell asleep. Only then did he rise and quietly leave. He left the door cracked so a stream of light came in. He didn't want her to be frightened if she woke in the night.

oooo

She had trouble standing by herself for more than a minute. The muscles in her legs wanted to atrophy. She would often wake up out of a haze to Snape rubbing healing salves into her thighs all the way down to her feet and working the muscles while she slept or was too feverish to react. It was an interesting sensation, his long fingers massaging the white butter-like cream into her skin. It smelled like vanilla though she suspected that it probably smelled awful unless he added some scent to cover it.

Snape wouldn't speak during these times, even if Hermione did wake up. He would glance up at her every few moments to make sure he wasn't hurting her and that she was okay. When her eyes were open – though glassy and unfocused – he would look away quickly and work more quickly. After he left, her skin would tingle for hours and the muscles would twitch and she would feel a bit stronger, after a while.

One day, he came into her room while she should have been resting. They both knew she was awake, still reading one of the potions texts that he'd lent her. He even knocked on the door instead of just barging in.

"Are you religious, Miss Granger?" he asked, looking straight at her.

"Excuse me?" she asked, setting the heavy book aside.

"Do you believe in God? Do you pray?"

"Where I come from that is considered a very personal question, professor," she said quietly. She didn't want to sound like she was chastising him, but she wanted to understand that he was asking something she could refuse to answer and it wouldn't be rude or insubordinate.

"I apologize, then," he said, and turned to go.

"I grew up in the church of England," she said, her voice calling him back to the room. "My father went occasionally, my mother every Sunday. I went with her until I was old enough to make my own decisions. After I got my Hogwarts letter… well, it seems to me that religion doesn't exactly fit into wizarding culture." He stood in the doorway still and she pointed to the other bed. He came in and sat gingerly on the small bed, folding his long, narrow form to fit in the small space between the mattresses.

"Wizards merely worship… different things," he said, unsure how to explain it.

"But… yes, I pray." she said.

"I would like to show you something, if you're up to it." He picked up her robe and held it out to her. She carefully got out of bed and put on the robe and her slippers. He let her hold on to his elbow for stability.

"I thought we weren't to leave the dungeons?" she said, as he led her into a maze of hallways.

"We aren't," he said. They were going away from the small percentage of the dungeons that was ever occupied by students. They were going further down then she'd ever been. Wall sconces came alive with flame as they walked by and she wasn't sure if it was Snape doing it or the castle. Either way, she was happy it wasn't dark to go along with the cold.

Finally they approached a wall and he reached for his wand and tapped a few stones. They began to move apart and a wooden door appeared, a crude cross carved into it.

"What is this?" she asked.

"It's Hogwarts' chapel," he said. He pushed open the door and inside was a simple altar with a few religious pictures – the virgin Mary, Jesus, what looked to be the last supper – and some candles. A few were lit. "The candles are charmed," he said as if to assure her that he didn't come here. She wondered if he did, though. If he prayed for her? "There aren't many places you can go, but I thought you might appreciate this one."

"Thank you," she said. She didn't bother to remind him that she couldn't get back here without a wand. Without another word, he left her. She moved closer to the altar and saw a box of wooden matches next to the candles. They looked new and vaguely Muggle. He'd probably brought them for her, knowing she wouldn't be able to magically light anything.

She only wanted to light one candle – she'd stopped going to church a long time ago. She thought about Harry and realized she didn't know if he was safe or off fighting another impossible fight. She thought about her parents, sick with worry. She thought about herself. Finally, she struck a match and touched the flame to the waxy, white wick of the tea light candle. It sprung to life.

"For Snape," she said, and shuffled slowly back to her bed.