AN: Thank you for all your support! It is very deeply appreciated!

What kind of state was Hermione in? This question echoed in Severus' mind as he rushed down the stairs towards her quarters. If experience had taught him anything, it was that it was never a good idea for one to be alone when in a mental state such as Hermione's. Each time Severus was this upset, he spent the evening drunk, cursing at every injustice life had thrown his way. Hermione shouldn't spend an evening that way. She needed a friend to tell her he cared, assuming she wanted anything to do with him. She may have locked the door and decided not to interact with anyone until the dawn.

Most evenings, he would try to hide his panic at the idea of anyone being in emotional pain. Yet the idea of Hermione being too hungover to teach or waking up too disheveled to function was unfathomable. With that in mind, he pounded on her door.

No answer.

Severus paused. There was a chance she had not returned to her room at all. Where would she have gone though?

Before he could dwell on the question for too long, Crookshanks let out a meow. He scratched at the door and let out a louder yowl.

"Damnit Crookshanks," Hermione wasn't slurring her words, but there was an edge to her voice.

Severus stepped back before she opened the door. Tail in the air, Crookshanks strutted inside. Hermione didn't notice her familiar. Her bloodshot, tearful eyes were on Severus.

"What are you doing here?" She sniffed.

"I came to see how you were doing," he answered in a tender voice.

"I'm fine," she wheeled backwards and began to shut the door.

"You are anything but fine," he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"Oh please come in," she snapped. "Just make yourself at home. I am happy to have you here."

"I am glad to hear you welcome my presence." He sat on the sofa.

"What makes you think you can walk in here as if you own half the place?"

"I don't own a centimeter of your quarters, but you did invite me here earlier. I thought I'd take you up on the invitation."

"Look, I know you wanted to have a glass of Riesling after your tea party, but," she closed the door. "Where's Hestia?"

"I couldn't care less."

"You should care given that Minerva will hunt you down if you do not conclude your date," her voice lost its edge. "Our night will get even worse if Minerva comes down here demanding you return to your date."

"I don't care what Minerva says or does. She can fire me for all I care. In fact, if she fired me I'd be free of this accursed debt, and could focus on other things."

"Like what?"

"That anti-inflammatory potion we are planning upon creating."

"Yes, that would be good to focus upon." Hermione slumped into her wheelchair.

"Have you had any wine yet?" He asked.

"I just poured myself a glass," she wheeled to the kitchen. "I take it you want one."

"If the offer still stands, yes."

"It does," She stood and used her left arm to press against the counter, balancing herself. With her right arm, she poured the glasses. Once she set the bottle down, she shook her head and sighed.

Severus considered asking if he could help, but decided against it. Her dignity had been stripped from her enough for one day. If she needed his aid, she knew how to ask for it.

"You probably think I was an idiot for leaving like that," Hermione began as the glasses floated towards her. Once she balanced them on her wheelchair, she rolled over to Severus.

"Not at all," he answered. "Hestia was an arse. There is no excuse for her actions."

"She was trying to be nice," she handed him a glass. "At least I think she was."

"How was she being nice? She saw you as an object of pity, not as a person." He took a sip of his wine.

"Well, she wouldn't be the only one to do that." She took a gulp of her wine.

A tense silence fell between them. There was much Severus wanted to say, but was afraid to say it. He could tell her he related to her situation, that he wanted to pull his hair out from those who saw him as nothing more than the adolescent who loved Lily, and that he became more of a symbol than a person after the war. Yet his experiences would only detract from the key differences between his situation and hers. He'd more than earned his lot in life. Hermione's only fault was getting tortured by Bellatrix.

"Hestia wasn't the first person to say she would've rather been dead than be me." Hermione's voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "A few people have said that to me."

"Nobody should've said that to you."

"Perhaps, but when she said that, it sent me back to the hospital, to the first time I heard it."

Severus kept his gaze on her.

"It was about two years after my diagnosis," she continued, her eyes distant. "I was seeing a specialist. I forgot his name. The healers all started running together after awhile. All I remember was he was an expert in magic which affected the limbs. Molly swore he'd be the one to cure me. She said that about all the healers, but she was more confident in this one than she was most others."

Severus hummed and nodded.

"He came in flanked by twelve medical students. He didn't say, 'hi' to me, just pointed at my leg and began spouting medical jargon. I had researched my condition so much I was oversaturated with information, and even I had trouble following him. A few times, he slapped my left leg and moved it without my permission, only to point out how badly it was spasming. A couple of times I tried to say something, but nobody so much as looked me in the eyes. In that moment, I was a shaking leg and nothing else."

She took another gulp of wine. "I remember the looks on the students' faces. They looked like first years walking into Hogwarts for the first time, only their smiles were more twisted and grotesque. It became clear five minutes into the appointment that they were not there to cure me, but to gawk at my leg."

Severus shook his head.

"I'll never forget how the healer finally looked at me, and in this gruff voice ordered me to, 'get up and walk.' I reached for my walker, and he told me not to use it. I have to walk on my own." Her body shook. "I tried to tell him I couldn't do it without my walker, but he repeated the command to me as if I was a defiant five year old. So, I stood and tried to walk, but I couldn't put any weight on my leg. It took everything in me not to scream and collapse. It was as if Bellatrix was torturing me anew, only now everyone thought I deserved it. Nobody was going to save me from those healers, medical students, and the sneers on their faces."

She gripped her wine glass tighter. "They were looking at me like I was a zoo exhibit, some rare creature they could never have dreamed of encountering. They said several things, most of it medical jargon or how shocked they were I even existed. Then, one student said in a loud voice, 'I can't believe she's managed to live this long. I would've killed myself the second I realized I couldn't walk.'"

"What a bunch of arses," He whispered.

"They's never seen anything like me, and thought they were helping me."

"They were turning you into a spectacle."

"It felt that way at the time anyway. The healer was finally kind enough to let me go back onto my bed."

"How gracious of him to allow you a little agency and relief form your pain."

"Indeed. He patted my leg, which felt like it was on fire, and announced he was going to cure me. Those students," she swallowed. "They clapped and wished him luck. Then they left me alone in that room, back exposed in a hospital gown, trying not to cry from the physical pain, utter humiliation and sense of violation."

"I hope you never saw that healer again."

"I wanted to stop seeing him after that, but Molly yelled at me for so much as mentioning that I didn't like or trust him. She told me that if I stopped seeing him I was ungrateful for her help. Apparently it took months to get that appointment, and she had already paid for his expertise. I saw him ten more times before I was finally able to convince her and Ron he couldn't cure me. By then, I was so humiliated from the whole ordeal that I began reconsidering whether or not I wanted a cure."

"I apologize for their deplorable actions."

"Why? You didn't do anything wrong." She gulped down the rest of her wine.

"What they did to you was inexcusable, unprofessional, and downright cruel."

"The healers all dehumanized me in their own way, some of it was unintentional some of it was intentional. I sometimes wonder how many articles have been written about me, how many times my pictures is in the textbooks under, 'conditions we couldn't cure' or 'magical medical oddities.' I love researching, but I've never been able to bring myself to read a medical journal for fear of seeing myself on the front page, sitting on a bed, trying not to cry because I've lost my humanity."

Severus' throat constricted. There was so much to say, but no words could convey the emotions in his heart, and his desire to protect her from ever feeling that way again.

"I'm sorry," she wheeled herself to the kitchen and poured herself another glass of wine. "We're supposed to be celebrating Halloween, and I've killed the mood."

"Hestia killed the mood, not you," he answered.

"No, this is my fault for getting upset that she called me an inspiration. I could've understood it as a compliment. I think it was meant as one, and I should've reacted as if it was."

"It was a backhanded compliment at best."

"Maybe," she poured herself another glass. "It is odd though. It's been years since anyone's called me an inspiration for winning the war or being part of the Golden Trio. I wouldn't be surprised if most people don't remember I did anything to defeat Voldemort. How could an invalid have ever have saved the Wizarding World? It boggles the mind."

"Do not call yourself an invalid," Severus began in a strong voice.

"Why not? That's all I am to anyone," She took another sip. "I'm pitiful, inspirational, freakish, anything but human."

"You are not pitiful or freakish," his voice softened. "At least not to me."

"You're in a minority. Nobody seems to care but you." She shook her head, "I don't know what to do some days. The Ministry didn't want anything to do with me because they didn't want to modify their buildings to make them accessible, nor did they think I was capable of simple tasks anymore. That, and they thought my leg would scare visitors, make the muggleborns less inclined to stay in the Wizarding World for fear of becoming me. Minerva hired me, which I'm grateful for, but what if she's right and I'm overestimating myself by applying for this Defense Against Dark Arts position? What if I die only being known as that muggleborn freak with a spasming leg?"

"Sadly, I can't control your legacy," he began. "Nor can I control what the rest of the Wizarding World believes about you."

A tear fell from her eye.

"All I know is you are important. Your leg is a part of you. Your disability is part of who you are, and an important part. Still, it is not all of who you are."

She swallowed.

He started at her. If he was in her position, he'd want to be left alone for the rest of the evening, perhaps even the next day. He'd snap at anyone who attempted to make conversation with him. Hermione didn't operate that way though. Instead, she needed to be close to others, to receive comfort from them.

Words were inadequate though. He'd heard enough hollow sayings and empty promises to fill a novel. The last thing he needed was to insult Hermione with them. Still, she needed something from him, something which showed he cared for her more than he did anyone else.

"What are you thinking?" She asked.

He walked over to her and embraced her. At first, the motion was uncomfortable and unnatural. Yet, it felt right when she returned the gesture and began to cry on his shoulder.

Together they held each other, allowing the sorrow of Halloween to sink into their bones, and be expelled by the affection they received from each other.

So I have a dilemma which I'd like to discuss with you all. I started a new story, and am 30 chapters into it! Don't worry, this story is complete, so this new story will have no impact on my ability to update this one. What I am curious about is when to start posting my new story. I could do it weekly on Friday in the afternoon, or I could try to do it on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. It will be more consistent if I upload every Friday, though there will be more of it to read throughout the week if I upload on Tuesday and Thursday, assuming I can get it updated in time. Let me know what you think!

Regardless, this story will continue to update on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. This schedule works for me, and I hope it continues to work for you too!