Disclaimer: If you've made it this far into the story thinking this is some long-lost draft of JKR's, well, I'm terribly sorry to disappoint you. This work of fanfiction is just fanfiction.

The sharp, sour smell of cordite irritated her nose and gave her a sore throat, but she still helped search through the piles of rubble. She frenetically hoped to find one more person alive; if she could save just one more, she could staunch the leeching guilt that she was fine. Fred, Tonks, Lupin, the litany of pale faces passed, while she, ashamed, could only claim already-scabbed cuts, minor bruises, and a tingling, twanging wand arm. Homenum Revelio indicated one person down there, and she was working with Terry Boot and a Hufflepuff friend of Ernie MacMillan's, whose-name-she-couldn't-place-and-that-mental-blank-galled, to dig down without causing further collapse. She found a hand, dirty, but protected from the pile by chance, and the rescuers began calling out. Then they shifted more stone, and were only able to identify the body as a student by the Ravenclaw badge still pinned to her uniform. Her head had been completely crushed. Hermione turned, retching, only to be pulled away by Madam Pomfrey. The matron wrapped one sweaty, shaking arm around the girl's sweaty, shaking shoulders and took hold of her wrist, gently, firmly guiding the resisting girl to the makeshift Infirmary in the Great Hall. St. Mungo's staff and Ministry disaster relief squads surged in their wake.

"You have done all you can do now. You'll help no one if you collapse too," Madam Pomfrey kept up a steady stream of talk in a steady, no-nonsense tone as she set a steady pace through the detritus of stones.

Once seated on a transfigured cot, Hermione consented to being attended by a spry old Healer from St. Mungo's, whose still-somewhat-clean lime green robes indicated how recently he had arrived.

"You've overextended your wand arm," he said, explaining the tingling, tender pain, "both magically and physically. You'll have to consent to a sling for your elbow, since any more magic would do more harm at this point."

At that, Hermione started. "Wait, so I can't use my wand arm?"

The Healer raised his wispy gray eyebrows as if this was self-evident. "Not for a few days at least; your body needs to calm down. Don't you feel like a struck tuning fork?"

"...Yes, I suppose that's exactly how you could describe it."

"Yes. You've overextended yourself."

"...Wait, so no magic at all?" Hermione gasped, aghast, as the full implications revealed themselves.

"Not by you, not to you, and I would advise you attempt to prevent it around you."

"But!" Hermione indicated the surrounding room. Not only were there spells being cast all around her, Hogwarts itself was a magical entity in its own right.

The Healer's wizened face scrunched into a study of wrinkles, "Hmm, perhaps you're right. I suggest you leave the grounds for a few days until your system regains its equilibrium."

Dazed, Hermione asked, "And how am I to leave without using magic, call a cab?"

The Healer chuckled at her as if her distress was amusing. "Oh no miss, the Knight Bus has re-purposed itself as a shuttle for the time being."

Hugging her knees to her chest and letting her head fall forward, she groaned, "Arrangements will need to be made."

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The Weasleys wanted Hermione to stay at the Burrow, but with Professors Snape and McGonagall in St. Mungo's, she was adamant about staying in London. Acting Minister Kingsley sent a team of Aurors to sweep Grimauld Place, but the former headquarters had been ransacked, cursed, hexed, booby-trapped, and jinxed within an inch of the wizarding house's existence. Ironically, Mrs. Black's portrait had finally been silenced by the Death Eaters. Evidently she'd taken umbrage against the invaders, regardless their ideological bent, and they must have taken umbrage with her umbrage, and the end result was just curling, crisply burnt edges of canvas held in place by the scorched gilt frame. Regardless, no one could be spared to make safe the safe-house in time.

As it was, a slightly green Hermione stepped out of the Knight Bus one green summer morning, to face the shabby, slightly crumbling tenement building that served for St. Mungo's long-term lodging. She clutched her beaded purse in her free left hand and tried to keep her wobbling legs under her, jumping horribly when the Knight Bus disappeared with a BANG! Shaking her head at her strained nerves, she opened the first set of doors, but pulled unsuccessfully at the inner door. Through the glass, Hermione saw a bored receptionist look up from a rather battered copy of Witch Weekly, roll her eyes, and gesture sharply to the right. Oh. A magical facsimile of an intercom was set into the wall at eye height.

Blushing at being caught missing something so obvious, Hermione pressed the call button.

"Roland McDorlund House, how can I help you?" The receptionist sounded perfectly obliging now.

"Yes I'm here to check in." Hermione said into the speaker, looking at the receptionist, who shook her head and made another jabbing motion. Oh. Hermione held down the call button and repeated herself.

"Name?"

She hesitated, but held down the button and spoke into the speaker, "Hermione Granger."

The receptionist dropped her magazine and fumbled around her desk. Hermione heard a muffled shunk as the door unlocked, so she tried the door again and entered the lobby. It was a rather shabby, poorly lit little room, with a number of ratty couches and chairs clustered around two fire places. The receptionist, a young witch not much older than Hermione (who looked vaguely familiar, even if she couldn't put a name to the face) now gazed at her rapturously. Hermione could now see the cover of her magazine: a grainy replay of Harry and Voldemort, connected by jets of red and green, the Elder Wand flying through the air, Voldemort falling, and the crowd surging around an absolutely gobsmacked Harry, underscored by the screaming headline VOLDEMORT VANQUISHED: THE BOY-WHO-LIVED LIVES AGAIN. The top side column showed the back of a black-cloaked, black haired man, who proved to be a young Professor Snape when he glanced over one shoulder haughtily, clearly quite irritated that readers were still looking at him, over a flowing script, Severus Snape, Forever Faithful. Hermione caught a glimpse of herself and Ron in each other's arms, but she was preoccupied by a burgeoning horror, wondering how Professor Snape was going to react when he found out that the whole wizarding world knew how he felt about Lily. It all seemed intensely private to Hermione. Of all the damned impulsiveness, Harry... her mental cataloging was interrupted by the receptionist, hesitatingly asking, "Miss Granger?"

She shook her head slightly and gave a weary grin. "Sorry, rough week."

The receptionist laughed breathlessly, and handed her a key. "You're in 204, second floor, second door on the left. If you need anything, please let me know."

Hermione made to go, but she turned back and asked, "Do you have the latest Daily Prophet? I haven't had the chance to look at a paper yet."

The receptionist hastily handed over her misfolded, out-of-order copy, and Hermione headed up to her new, temporary quarters. The tiny, sterile room was large enough for a single bed, a small dresser, a tiny table, a small kitchen sink, three cupboards, a burner, a mini-fridge, and a small square of countertop. The rooms were meant to accommodate the family members of St. Mungo's patients, however short- or long-term they be. After sitting a moment on the garishly-patterned duvet, Hermione began to unpack her bag.

Blinking, she rummaged around one-handed for a moment, and pulled out Phineas Nigelus' portrait and set him upright on the dresser. Currently, it was empty, so she called, "Headmaster Black?"

He groped blindly into the frame, griping, "Have you returned me to my proper house, young lady?"

She made to grab her wand to remove his blindfold, only to feel sick remembering she was ordered off magic. Ordered to remain defenseless, her brain added, and she bickered back, as if you wouldn't draw wand if you really were in danger, don't play goody-I'm -going-to-obey-doctor's-orders-two shoes with me.

"You called, Miss Granger?" His sneer dripped with officious irony.

"I-I'm sorry Headmaster, I was going to remove your blindfold, but I can't just yet-"

"What do you mean 'just yet?' You have nothing to fear from me OR from Headmaster Snape, now I DEMAND-"

"I've overextended," Hermione cut in calmly, "and the Healers ordered me to refrain from using magic, so if you would please calm down, I was trying to appraise you of certain current events." She paused. "That is, if you wish to hear, of course. I would hate to bore you."

Phineas pursed his lips, facing the direction of her voice. After a moment, he huffed, "Well, girl? Out with it!"

Hermione sighed internally. "Grimmauld Place is not safe to enter at the moment; apparently the Death Eaters broke through the wards and laid traps in case we ever returned. At the moment, no one could be spared to make the place habitable, so I am currently in the St. Mungo's McDorlund House."

He sighed gustily and drawled, "Yes, I suppose it was too much to be hoped for that you were wandering in the wilderness all winter without reason. If you and your merry band of heroes hadn't defused most of the Black protections in the first place, the Death Eaters would have never gotten in." Hearing her sharp intake of breath, he continued, "The first thing a dark wizard does is protect himself from other dark wizards, I should have thought that obvious."

"Slytherins," she grumbled, shaking her head. Phineas only looked more self-satisfied. Hermione hesitated, then asked archly, "Have you heard any news of Professor Snape?" She toyed with the beading on her purse and didn't see the portrait's leer.

"We have been informed that he made it through the first night, and that the Healers put him in an induced coma...but Dilys tells me they expect he will live."

Hermione, who had held her breath while he spoke, let out a half sob and started shaking.

"Now see here!" Phineas called, "Such displays of emotion are decidedly uncalled for in someone of your bir-situation."

"Oh bite your tongue, you bitter old man, I held his artery shut for a quarter of an hour, trickling potions down his tattered throat and keeping him breathing until the Healers arrived, all the while looking over my shoulder waiting for Voldemort to come back, so don't you try to pretend I'm not invested in this!"

Black sat stunned. "...You kept him alive?"

"Oh don't you carp on about saving a man I thought was a traitor; Voldemort wanted him dead, wasn't that enough reason to try to keep him alive?"

The portrait waved a hand. "You said you held his wound closed?"

She paled. "Yes". There was blood everywhere.

Black raised his voice, "You haven't overextended, child, you've been poisoned. Get to St. Mungo's now!"

Hermione threw his portrait into her purse and apparated.

The lobby of St. Mungo's was a madhouse. People were wailing, calling for their loved ones, yelling in pain, rushing to and fro, or trying to direct traffic. The tingling numbness in Hermione's arm now seemed sinister and insidious. Then, while she was waiting in line, someone recognized her, and she was swarmed by a mob of people.

"It's her!"

"It's Hermione Granger!"

"It really is!"

"What are you doing here?"

"Who are you coming to visit?"

"Did you really ride a dragon?"

Hermione spotted someone in lime green trying to push through the crowd and thanked who ever it was who thought to dress the Healers in such garish colors. The crush was making her anxious, she could feel sweat start to break out on her face and she knew she was breathing too fast. Then someone jostled her sling and a wave of agony almost floored her.

"BACK! ALL OF YOU! BACK! For shame! This is a hospital, not a night club!" An amazon in lime green powered through the crowd when she saw the girl in distress. Her sharp voice pitched above the melee, and she wrapped a protective arm around Hermione's shoulders as they made for a door.

The noise from the lobby quickly faded, the ensuing quiet swelled like balm. "If it's any consolation to you, you can be sure that the Welcome Witch out there will only be invited to volunteer with bed pans after this." The tall, fair Healer led Hermione into a tiny waiting room. "Now, I'm Healer Fitger, Miss Granger, and I'm very sorry to meet you under such circumstances."

"Believe me, Healer Fitger, I am very glad to meet you." Hermione looked down at her sling. "At Hogwarts, I was diagnosed with overextension, but the Healer didn't know that I came into contact with Nagini's venom that night, and I've since been informed that I may have imbibed some of the toxicity through my skin."

Healer Fitger's sharp blue eyes sharpened further, and she carefully released the sling, maneuvering Hermione so her arm rested extended on a table. Hermione's fingers were so pale they looked grey. "Came into contact? How?" She held her wand over Hermione's hand, carefully not touching.

Hermione licked her lips, "I was the first responder to Professor Snape. His throat," she swallowed, "his throat had been ripped open, so I pinched his carotid artery shut and held it until the mediwizards showed up."

Healer Fitger's eyes flashed to hers. "Did you use gloves?"

"There wasn't time."

"No, indeed not." Healer Fitger muttered as she conjured a turquoise paper bracelet, sheathed her wand up her sleeve, and asked, "Do you feel you can walk unaided, Miss Granger? We're admitting you to the Dai Llewellyn Ward, even though you haven't been bitten, because in this case it might be prudent to have Professor Snape's Healers attend you, too."

"I can walk. I'm mostly fine. Other than being jostled in the crowd, of course, but I've a feeling that was mostly psychological."

"Alright. Up we get then." They rose, Hermione only coming up to Healer Fitger's chin, and they walked through more hallways. Outside the ward, Healer Fitger said, "When you're better, I would really like to hear about your actions that day, and most importantly, how you came to learn to do what you did. You saved his life, lass. Well done. Welcome to our fellowship."

"Fellowship?" Hermione asked as another Healer opened the door.

"That band of stubborn lunatics who've wrestled life out of the jaws of death. Better watch out, you might find it addicting." Healer Fitger flashed a beautiful smile and turned away.

Healer Smethwyck, standing behind Hermione in the doorway, cleared his throat impatiently. "This way, if you please, miss." He led her into a nearly-full ward, shaking his head at her when she stared horrified at the number of patients wrapped in bandages. "I've never seen so many cases of acromantula bites. Most victims don't live long enough to make it here you know." Then she saw Professor Snape and stopped dead in her tracks.

"Severus Snape wasn't yours!"

He was lying flat on his back, eyes closed, pale as the bedspread. His hair splayed like an oil slick across the white pillowcase, and his throat was wrapped in yards of white gauze. Hermione's mouth worked noiselessly.

The Healer took a firm grip on her good elbow and guided her to a seat on the bed next to the sleeping professor. "Worry about your own health, Miss Granger, there'll be time enough for questions and explanations later, but if you don't wish to lose your wand arm, we need to act now." He gently examined Hermione's grey, right hand top, palm, and fingers. Then he peered at the turquoise paper bracelet and his eyebrows disappeared behind his curly fringe.

"How long were you in contact with the venom?" he asked.

"About fifteen minutes." The longest fifteen minutes of my life.

"How long was it before you able to clean your hands?" He now was scrutinizing the tips of her thumb, index, and middle fingers.

Blood. Blood everywhere. She swallowed thickly. "I cast a cleansing charm almost immediately after the mediwizards left."

"Did you get the chance to use soap and water after that?"

"Not until the next morning."

"Hm." The Healer gently released her hand, nodding. Then, lighting the tip of his wand, he looked into her eyes, moving the light to check the iris reactions. "Do you feel any dizziness or faintness?" Hermione averred she did not. "Nausea?" She shook her head.

"Only an odd twanging, jangling sensation in my hand that fades up to tingling in my forearm."

Healer Smethwyck nodded. "Well, this should be fairly straight forward: I'm going to administer the antivenin, but I'm also admitting you overnight for observation. Are there people you wish to inform?"

She licked her dry lips and nodded.