Hermione so gratefully welcomed the void that came with closed eyelids, but voices pounding around her forbade sleep. She twitched and stirred, and the voices hushed.

"Hermione?" said one tentatively.

She opened one eye, and then the next, and was faced with a room full of abruptly pale faces.

"What-?" Before she could finish her sentence, Madame Pomfrey bustled over and checked her vitals. She shined a light in Hermione's eyes, cupped her chin to gauge her complexion, and took her pulse several times before forcing a spoonful of something vile down her throat and declaring her healthy for the time being.

Professor Dumbledore leaned lightly on the edge of her bed and clasped his hands in his lap. "How are you feeling, my girl?"

Hermione swallowed hard, and answered with a question. "What happened?"

Snape cleared his throat from behind that Headmaster, his brow furrowed. "You don't remember?"

Hermione closed her eyes and tried to keep her panicking mind within check. "Oh no," she whispered, "I remember. I just don't quite understand it."

From the foot of the bed, it was Harry who piped up. "Don't worry, Hermione, I got the little prick—"

"That's enough, Mr. Potter," said McGonagall from beside him.

"You weren't there, Professor, you'd have attacked him too!" said Ron indignantly.

And then an argument erupted so quickly that Hermione was sure it was merely a continuation of something she'd missed in her sleep.

"Stop," she said quietly, but it was effective. Whatever it was that Pomfrey gave her burned in her belly but calmed her nerves. "Can someone please explain?" Her eyes found Snape. He was the most likely to keep his head, she reasoned.

He studied her carefully before he spoke. "How much do you know of Vodoun?"

Hermione cocked an eyebrow. "Not even the name."

Snape nodded, unsurprised. "I thought as much." He retrieved a chair from behind McGonagall and drew it up beside Dumbledore.

He folded his hands, and spoke. "Vodoun is a very old, very powerful, and very dark form of Earth magic. It is so out-dated, we hardly recognized it. But that's what was used on you today.

"The concept is complex to say the least, but I'll cut out specifics. The theory behind it is this: control of one being can be attained through the use of a spell and an artifact belonging to subject. In laymen's terms, if you've got a wand and something belonging to whomever you wish to curse, you're golden."

Hermione pulled herself upright and furrowed her brow. "Sounds a lot like Voodoo."

Snape nodded deeply, slowly. "The ideas are similar. They derive from the same branch of Earth magic. The difference is that in Voodoo, a doll is made as a replica of the subject."

"And in Vodoun?"

Snape stared at her evenly. "A human substitute is used."

Hermione opened and closed her mouth several times. "Spell it out for me," she said finally.

Snape leaned forward slightly, his face grave. "In Vodoun, a human is used as a voluntary surrogate for whomever one wishes to curse. The surrogate need only wear an article of the subject's clothing, say, for the curse to work. I stress the word voluntary, for a surrogate must be just that. After the spell is cast, a surrogate can experience virtually anything, aside from death."

Hermione was floored, primarily by the fact that she'd never even heard of such magic. "I take it that whatever someone does to the substitute happens to whomever they wish to curse?"

"Precisely."

Hermione nodded. "And that's what happened in class." It wasn't a question this time, and her voice sounded gravelly even to her.

Snape nodded, but said nothing; instead, he gave her a moment for it to sink in.

She glanced up after a moment of pure silence. "Who was it?"

"Malfoy," Harry spit out from the foot of the bed.

Hermione nodded, but Snape didn't at all like how wide and almost haunted her stare had become. "Let me get this straight," she murmured. "Malfoy somehow acquired something of mine, convinced some girl to wear it, bewitched her, and then—then—what? What was it he did?" She bit her lip. "I saw nothing, I saw air. But it felt, you know, it felt like—"

And quite suddenly, she couldn't get enough air.

A glass of water was pushed to her mouth firmly, but she accepted it without a fight. Her cheeks were ablaze as she felt every eye in the room fill with pity for her.

When Snape was sure she'd calmed, he broke it to her as gently as one could when talking of such things. "It was Miss Parkinson who agreed; she wore some sort of hair-band of yours."

Hermione looked up, and her eyes were steely. "What did he put into her? Into me? It wasn't…"

She shut her mouth quickly, and Snape had the sneaking suspicion that it was to prevent a cry from escaping. He bit his cheek to keep his wits.

"His wand, Miss Granger. It was his wand."

Hermione let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding, but curiously the tightness in her chest didn't ease. "I don't know if that's better or worse," she admitted, and instantly hated herself for allowing even a second of weakness. At the same time, she cursed Malfoy, and his entire ancestry, because nearly a month of impressive emotional strength had been shattered by him in a single afternoon.

And she hated to admit that she broke nearly as badly as she did the first time around.

"So what does this mean?" she asked, her rationale picking up her slack. "That I'm now vulnerable to everyone who has access to my stuff?"

It was McGonagall who spoke now, even as tears poured down her cheeks. "No, no, my girl, there are repellent spells, which were cast immediately after the evidence of Vodoun presented itself. You are safe now."

Hermione stopped herself from saying she thought she was safe before. She shook her head imperceptibly; this was no time for hostility, she had no one to blame but Malfoy. Instead, she nodded.

Her head was only half clear as she bid them all good-day, with the promise that she'd stop by McGonagall's office when she was released the following evening. She was assaulted by more hugs than she'd ever need from Harry and Ron both. And finally, they all filed out.

Save for one.

Professor Snape made no indication that he was prepared to vacate his seat any time soon.

"Something on your mind?" she asked him with an attempt at humor, but it died between them.

"Something on yours?" he retorted.

And she cocked her head, studying him. "I have a question, but it might be rather personal."

He nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. She'd been, by all intents and purposes, raped yet again and she was worried about offending him. "By all means, Miss Granger, ask me anything."

She bit her lip, and her cheeks paled. "I was just wondering…does it always hurt? Or…you know, did it only hurt because I was a virgin? Maybe that's a stupid question, I'm sorry…"

She trailed off, the picture of uncertainty, of anxiety, and Snape had never felt so sorry for anyone in his life. He, the Bat of the Dungeons, could've cried for her.

"No, Miss Granger," he whispered, and took Dumbledore's seat on the edge of her bed. "No one in the world should have to go through what you've gone through twice now; it's perhaps one of the worst evils in the world. It is so despicable primarily because the tool these men use is something that is meant to be intimate, something that is meant to be bred from love. What has hurt you so badly can also be one of the most beautiful experiences when…done correctly, done gently. And I hope you can believe me."

It occurred to Hermione that having the sex talk with Professor Snape, of all people, should've made her insides squirm uncomfortably. She was surprised when it didn't. She found herself wondering if Snape had ever loved before. Hermione counted herself lucky, in that instant, that he felt her mature enough to trust her with talk like this. Her thighs burned, her lower belly ached, and she was sure that part of her psyche was irreparably damaged. But while every rational fiber of her being screamed that he was spitting lies, something in her heart told her to trust him.

And trust him she did.

Author's Note: PLEASE REVIEW :)