A/N: Poor Hermione. This is not an easy situation for her. But our (anti)hero does indeed have a plan. Many, in fact...

Chapter 3

She was floating. Floating and falling, and yet still chained up. Everything hurt, inside and outside, and she felt lost, and yet she was certain she knew where she was.

There were three of them. That much she knew, and kept holding onto, a strange magic number that somehow reflected this grim reality of hers. Yes, stay here. Stay here. She consulted her Mind's Eye, which was flickering and faltering, barely in place. No, no please. Before she could stop it, she heard the voice. Lucius Malfoy's voice, this time in front of her and in a hall of flickering light and darkness. She saw Dolohov and, over and over, felt the purple fire slicing through her chest. She gasped and screamed. Her chest blistered and then seemed to explode.

"No! No, please!"

The only answer was a rattling, sucking breath, somewhere to her left.

Hermione came to herself enough to check again, for the hundredth – the thousandth? – time that the bars were still there, still in place, still separating her from the things on the other side. Checking the bars meant she had to see them. Their faceless heads were turned toward her, hoods black as night, their scabbed and rotting hands wrapped around the bars of her prison. They strained forward, stretching as much as they could, and she was gone again.

Someone was moving her. Hands on each arm. They were still there, somewhere; she could feel them feeding off her. The hands on her arms were cold, clammy. She realized what was really happening, tried to scream… and faded again.

"What precisely is the meaning of this, Dolores?" A cold, furious voice spoke from beside her. She was sitting – sprawling – on something cold and stony, with freezing chains that wrapped across her chest, constricting, choking the life from her. The room was dim – was there ever any light around them? – and she could just make out people above and around her, and a mass of black at her side. It shifted and a face came into view, blurry and strange. She recoiled quickly, although her mind recognized him slowly. Snape peered into her eyes, frowned, and stood back up and away from her.

He spoke again, and there was a reply, something simpering and sharp, and Hermione felt her mouth fill with bile. And then – oh! – the deeper darkness at her other side retreated.

Hermione felt her mind clear slightly, gradually. She blinked, and blinked again.

"As I said, you will release Miss Granger into my custody immediately, Dolores, or you will face my superior and account for this personally."

"You'll find, Severus, that my own superior has bestowed upon me the authority to deal with this Mudblood," Umbridge answered, her voice as sweet as maggoty sugar. "She, like the rest of them, is standing trial for – "

"The evidence for her status as a Half-blood has already been confirmed by the documents I have presented to the Wizengamot," Snape overrode her, quick and clipped, "and that evidence has been published, Dolores. Miss Granger's innocence is a matter of public record. Once it gets out that you have kept Hogwarts's newest Head Girl imprisoned by three Dementors for the better part of three days you will be hard-pressed indeed to keep any of your authority." His voice lowered slightly, and Hermione tried to suppress a shiver at his tone. "Indeed, I might seek out personal satisfaction against you in this matter, Dolores."

The toad-like countenance blanched, and Umbridge attempted to cover her distress with a tittering laugh. Hermione shuddered against the chains binding her arms and chest.

"Very well, then, Severus," Umbridge said. "Take the girl. There was no need to be quite so dramatic." She laughed again, looking at the people around her for encouragement, and fell abruptly silent when none came.

Snape was already approaching Hermione. She flinched when he drew his wand to disengage her bindings, and again when he took her by the elbow and helped her to her feet, not ungently. Without a word, he swept her from the large chamber, and Hermione struggled to keep pace with him up the shadowy corridor towards the lift. The three Dementors were out here, and Hermione instinctively shrank away from them, towards Snape, who encircled her waist with his arm, supporting her as she stumbled down the hallway. She tried to get away from him as she realized how closely he held her.

"Easy now," he said, voice pitched low, almost a whisper. He still spoke in the same clipped tone he had used in the courtroom, but his body gave off warmth that she hadn't felt in almost three days, and she allowed him to escort her into the lift.

Once the doors closed and the thing began its jangling assent away from the Dementors, Hermione started to come back to herself slowly, one piece at a time. Her Mind's Eye interface was reappearing, and she engaged it carefully, slipping into that objective headspace. She was exhausted. She had not slept for three days, nor had she eaten. She also registered that she was in some state of shock after the continual attack of the Dementors, and that there were gaping holes towards the back of her Mind's Eye. What was missing? She dismissed that frightening question, and paid attention to her immediate surroundings instead.

The man beside her continued to hold her up, and she tried to stand on her own.

"Let me…" she tried to speak clearly, but her voice was nothing, less than a whisper. She tried again. "Go. Let me…"

"Hush," the dark man said, peering into her face as he had done in the courtroom. This close, Hermione could see the taut lines around his mouth, the gauntness beneath his cheekbones, and the cold-burning fury in his black eyes. She looked away, but not before she saw something like curiosity light those eyes. She dismissed it, and him, and concentrated on trying to stand on her own instead as the lift made its horribly unstraightforward way to the Atrium.

"No," she muttered as Snape towed her out of the lift and toward one of the nearby fireplaces. "Let… go…"

Snape turned her so that she had to face him. The fury of before had been replaced by cool impatience, and he used his height to tower over her.

"You are coming with me. We are going by floo to Hogwarts, where I will see to you. You are considerably impaired, and without prompt attention your injuries may become permanent. I will then return you to the Burrow. You will follow my instructions. You will not protest any further."

She shrank back from him – she couldn't help it. He had featured prominently in the cycle of horrific visions she'd suffered the previous three days, and whatever weak fight she'd mustered up quickly fizzled away. He stared down at her for another moment, before turning away. He threw some green powder into the closest fireplace, and moved her bodily into the bright flames that erupted. There, he seemed to hesitate for a moment before wrapping his arms around her, one at her waist, one around her shoulders, holding Hermione close enough that she could smell the scent of herbal smoke that clung to his black robes. She brought her arms up to push him away, but he was already saying, "Hogwarts, Headmaster's Office."

And they were spinning. Hermione's knees gave way, and she clung to Snape without realizing it. He was warm, warmer than the fire, and his arms around her felt like an anchor to the world. The green flames licked at her pleasantly, and her head fell forward to rest on his clavicle. She started to drift in the spinning, wondrous flames, warm at last and almost content.

It was over as suddenly as it had begun: Snape had hold of her arm once more, and was walking her firmly out of the fireplace and into Dumbledore's – no, his – office at Hogwarts. He let go of her for the first time since they'd left the courtroom, and she stumbled and almost fell into a chair that was suddenly transfigured into a plush sofa.

"Lie down, Miss Granger," Snape said, turning abruptly and disappearing into the recesses of the circular room.

She did as instructed, looking through heavy-lidded eyes at the office once occupied by the man now depicted in the painting behind the desk. Albus Dumbledore's portrait, like the rest of the portraits in the office, appeared to be asleep. The place was the same as the few times Hermione had been here before. She registered her surprise, somewhere within the numbing apathy settling over her. She would have thought he'd have his collection of nasty things in jars and horrific paintings set up without ado upon claiming the Headmaster's position, or that he'd at least remove Dumbledore's portrait.

A movement at her side, Snape came back into view.

"There you are," a weak voice spoke. "I'd hoped you'd gotten lost." Hermione clamped her mouth shut, realising that it was she herself who had spoken to the dark man standing before her.

"Indeed," he answered, raising an eyebrow. He held several vials of potion, and he quickly transfigured another chair into a low stool and sat down before her. "How do you feel, Miss Granger?"

"Like I'm full of holes," she said, unable to stop herself. "Like I used to be full, and now everything is just pouring out through those holes."

Snape was staring at her, his face quite blank, but as she watched his eyes darted over her. He actually looks concerned, she thought, kind of. Who the hell could tell? And then she laughed, long and bitter and slow. It sounded slightly insane.

"Are you seeing to me by looking at me?" she asked. The bright candlelight in the office seemed to be fading. "Considerable impairment and all…" she trailed off, looking at him, searching his face as he searched hers. It was the only thing she could see in the darkening room, and she was tempted to reach out and touch his cheek, to anchor herself to him now as she'd done in the fire.

"Yes, Miss Granger. As I said, I will see to you." She had never heard him speak to anyone so softly.

His manner changed abruptly, and he was Professor Snape once more.

"This is a potion to counter the effects of the Dementors. It is a concentrated dose based on your extreme level of exposure over the last three days. It will be unpleasant, but effective."

He held out one of the vials. Hermione took it from him and downed it in one. She couldn't help coughing – it burned her throat, strong and bitter, and with a horrible burnt-chocolate aftertaste. He handed her a glass of water, and then another vial.

"This is a dose of Pepper-Up – "

"Yeah, yeah," Hermione muttered. She grabbed the potion from him and downed it as well. She felt steam start to pour from her ears. "Just… give me the rest. If you're going to poison me… I don't care. Just – "

She cut herself off by taking the remaining three potions as quickly as she could, one after another like shots. The flavours mixed into a disgusting magical cocktail in her mouth. She recognized the sickly sweet flavour of Dreamless Sleep in the last potion, and immediately looked forward to its effects. The strange emptiness inside kept gnawing at her, but the pain of it was passing.

"As charming as always, Granger."

She was fading fast, closing her eyes to block out his face, and she would not soon remember reaching out and placing her hand on his cheek, just as she'd imagined doing.

"She'll sleep the night right through, that's for certain."

"Yes, but will he? I don't think he'll dose himself into a stupor with the girl sleeping out here."

The voices were distant, as though she heard them through a tunnel.

"He hardly sleeps anymore, you know. I'll bet he's pacing around his rooms now, seething."

"Go and check on him, Phineas, there's a lad."

Hermione was still drowsy, that was certain, but now she felt the uncomfortable angle of her legs on the sofa, and that the hand under her head was going numb.

"Absolutely not. If I go to him now, he'll blast me right back to Grimmauld and I'll be stuck listening to my great-granddaughter shrieking herself hoarse for the rest of the night. Thank you, but no."

She knew that voice, she was certain.

"He's bad off isn't he? At least as bad off as she is."

"He's not spent the last three days surrounded by Dementors."

"He is worried about her, though, isn't he?"

"Yes. I was surprised that he bothered to repair and freshen her robes. He's always detested the girl. I figured he'd leave her in those filthy rags all night. And he gave her back her wand."

She tried to perk up her interest upon hearing that, but she felt herself sliding backwards again, toward sleep.

"Indeed. And I am worried about her. And about him. What exactly has he done that she is come here?"

"Albus, what say you?"

The voices rose, chattering noisily now, but Hermione heard none of it as she slipped back into a sleep void of dreams.

Voices again. She sighed and turned onto her back, bringing a forearm up to cover her eyes.

"Miss Granger."

"Ugh," she answered. "Go away."

She was on the edge of something, a hill or a cliff. Ron was next to her, Harry was off to the side somewhere. He was saying something –

"Do stop that infernal muttering, Miss Granger, and get up."

And she was awake. Sudden and swift, sitting up and staring at the man standing over her, a frown deepening the lines of his face. She got up. She felt springy, almost giddy, and the contrast to the previous days was so sharp that she stumbled forward. He caught her with one hand on her shoulder.

"Sorry, sir," she said, stepping back and scrubbing at her face with one hand. "I'm up."

He glared at her a moment longer before turning away and striding toward the fireplace. She watched his back, wondering when he would speak to her, if he would enquire about her health this morning. She was hungrier than she could ever remember being, and she had so much energy that she was tempted to take a quick sprint around the room. As she watched, his shoulder blades rose slightly, and she thought of the hackles rising on the back of dog's neck, before he swung back around and caught her eye.

"Do come along, Miss Granger," he said abruptly. "I do not wish to spend any more time in your company than I already have. If you are quite through gawping at me, I shall return you to the Burrow."

Hermione felt herself fidgeting, and she looked away from Snape. She had questions, and even though she didn't much fancy the idea of staying anywhere near the impatient Headmaster, she wanted answers.

"I – I feel different this morning," she said. "What was in that first potion you gave me last night?"

"It was a concentrated distillation of the magical properties of cacao. The aftereffects include moderate hyperactivity followed by fatigue." He stood by the fireplace, his profile to her now, looking down at his fingernails. "You will want to spend the day resting – do not follow the urge to go running about. I suggest that you avoid using magic, as your stores will be depleted from the attacks of the last three days. I further suggest that you employ some form of meditation to counteract the long-term effects of the Dementors."

"What effects are those, sir?" she asked, noticing that her voice sounded a degree higher than usual.

He looked at her quickly.

"Those on your psyche," he said quietly. "You will feel… less. Diminished. You will, of course, regenerate in due course, but there is no potion to counteract the psychic effects of prolonged Dementor exposure."

"Are the effects permanent?" she whispered, feeling a chill radiating down her spine as she remembered the absences she'd noticed in the Mind's Eye interface the previous day.

He looked away into the fire, and she saw his shoulders rise in an infinitesimal shrug.

"I do not know, Miss Granger."

Hermione closed her eyes tightly, and made the very conscious decision to forgo Occlumency training for the next few days. She didn't want to see how extensive the damage really was; now that the giddiness was draining out of her, she could feel a difference within herself, a new emptiness.

"What do I tell the Weasleys?" she asked, changing the subject deliberately.

He glanced at her sharply.

"About what, Miss Granger?"

"About… what happened to me."

"You may tell them whatever you like, as long as you do not mention our arrangement. I advise that you inform them of your new status as Head Girl so that you may position yourself within that role before September."

"Okay."

After checking that her own copy of the beaded bag was still in the pocket of her clean but thoroughly ruined dress robes, and stowing her wand up her sleeve, Hermione walked forward to stand next to Snape before the blazing fire.

"What do you do?" she asked. He sighed, and continued to stare into the fire. She went on, "When you need to… regenerate. What do you do?"

He turned to face her, and she suddenly realized how close she was standing to him: their chests almost touched, and she had to look up through the curtain of his hair to catch his dark, expressionless eyes. She thought for certain he wouldn't answer, but she kept her eyes on his, searching for something, anything, in those black depths. He had a soul in there somewhere, this man who was holding herself and her parents hostage. He'd saved her, cleaned her, cured her to the best of his ability. He could have just dropped her off at the Burrow, but he'd seen to her.

"I walk, Miss Granger," he said at last, lowering his eyes. "For miles, and miles."

She nodded.

"Goodbye, sir."

He didn't answer, just turned to the fireplace and threw a handful of floo powder into the flames. He spoke her destination tersely, and stepped aside so that Hermione could climb over the grate. She felt his hand brush her elbow, steadying her, before she was spinning away.