Hermione had experienced pain. To be alive was to at times endure, and growing up in both the muggle world without the quickness of potions and wands to heal, and as one of Harry Potter's best friends, unfortunately she wasn't a stranger to occasional suffering.
She'd never, however; experienced true, unrelenting, agony.
This was the type of crackling burn frost's icy kiss bestowed—where every synapse of one's being silently screamed in rebellion to its potential reawakening. The type of pain that only was felt as the skin thawed, before necrosis took its reward.
Before everything went numb.
Forever.
Solace could be taken in the fact she was alive to endure, that she hadn't yet succumbed to the numbness of death.
There was no solace, however, in the pain currently threading itself along each of her nerves, fizzling out like one of the twin's fireworks; her body spasming in tandem with their pops.
Her consciousness fought for dominance against the agony coursing through every fiber of her being.
Dancing specs of light painted abstract lace against the inside of her eyelids, dizzying her; the source too piercing, too vibrant, to be the illumination from a wand or candle.
'Must be sunlight.'
The thought slid across her consciousness, as swift as a pixie wing in flight, before thinking once more became unbearable. The dizziness from the dancing lace grew, Hermione's stomach rolling in response as if she'd just dismounted a broom after a harrowing ride.
There was heat upon her cheek. Sharp heat, like a branding of a fire poker, pressed against her over-sensitive skin.
She wished she could turn her face away from the heat, from the light, from how she felt it burning her skin.
She could almost smell the charred flesh.
She couldn't have opened her eyes to check what was causing the light, the heat, if she'd wanted to, the pain of her body keeping them screwed shut without her even trying.
A tear leaked out from Hermione's sealed lid, sliding silently down her cheek. Even consumed as her mind and body were to the sensory cacophony, it found ways to defy even itself with her rebellious emotions.
A twitch in her jaw brought awareness of a chilled gel seeping into her pores as her tear cleaved a path down her face.
She didn't even have the energy to wonder why the gel was there.
Or who'd applied it.
Turning her head was out of the question. Her neck muscles ached, almost petrified in their tightness.
She wished someone would do something about the beam and heat of what she assumed was sunlight, so it wasn't burning what was left of her face.
'Where am I?'
The first true sense she became aware of upon awakening, that was not dominated by the coursing pain, was her sense of smell.
The chorus of aromatic notes—lavender, ylang-ylang, primrose and mint—that over the past five years had identified her dormitory were missing. Gone was the tang of wood smoke from the room's fire, and the comforting aroma of aged wood and worn wool.
Instead, her nose twitched and her faculties rebelled against the crisp tang of antiseptic and nettle milk; against the mix of clean starched linen and waterlogged skin.
The sheet beneath her exposed skin on the backs of her legs and arms was starched and scratchy. Not the soft linens she'd slept upon up in Gryffindor tower.
The sounds around her were muted — liquid dripping, its cadence steady and strong, the plink of each drop joining the others upon its destination. Something to her right was clicking, the random beat of something solid against metal setting her teeth on edge. Murmured voices accompanied the metallic annoyance.
Voices her foggy brain tried to identify.
'Where in the Hades lair am I?'
Her sluggish brain began assembling these sensory discoveries, a location slowly flickering to life in her minds eye.
Eyes still shut, Hermione gathered her strength, willing everything she had into pushing herself up. A spasm jolted up her spine at her movement, and Hermione all but fell back into the groove of the mattress she'd attempted to escape from.
"Careful now, Miss Granger. Easy does it."
"M..m..madam?"
Cotton coated the inside of her mouth, making the formation and passage of words challenging.
"I'm right here Miss Granger. Are you able to open your eyes for me?"
"Ummm..."
Hermione wrestled to crack her eyes open only to shut them immediately at the streak of intense pain that cracked across her temples.
"AH!" Hermione yelped. "It's too bright. I'm BURNING!"
A gasp, then the rustling sound of cloth against metal. Blessed coolness caressed her flaming cheeks, but did nothing to dull the throbbing in her head. She heard a whispered spell, the fizzle as flame met wick, smelled the tang of melting wax.
"How's this Miss Granger? I've only a candle lit now. Should be safe to try again."
Hermione squinted through one eye, before deeming it safe to open both. The world around her shifted slowly from a dreamlike fuzziness before solidifying into sharp focus.
"That man! I thought he'd closed them when he... well, never mind that now."
The Mediwitch muttered malevolent threats toward some mystery wizard as Hermione's eyes took in her surroundings like a starving crup with a bone.
'Of course. The bloody Hospital wing.'
Housed in the back corner of Hogwarts hospital wing, Hermione noticed her bed was angled so Madam Pomfrey could see her from her office, even with typical privacy practices in place.
The standard sterile curtains that framed each hospital bed were currently drawn tight around where she lay ensconced, hiding her view of the entrance.
Ensuring her privacy.
"What man? What happened? Where's Harry? Ron?"
Each word she dragged from her lips sent roars of thunder through her head, the echos reverberating. The throbbing in her temples burst behind her eyes and she flinched.
"Its time for your next dose Miss Granger."
"Wha—"
The Mediwitch looked at Hermione with compassion, her usual steely resolve curiously absent.
"All I'm allowed to say, dear, is that you're in the hospital wing at Hogwarts. And you are now safe. When you next awaken, I've been assured you should be well enough to have a conversation. As it is, I can tell you're about ready to pass out on me again."
Voices began murmuring once more behind the curtain, having cut off once Madam Pomfrey had begun her administrations.
Hermione's eyes unfocused as the pain behind her brow grew. She had so many questions but her energy was fading fast.
She gagged down the eight potions fed to her—the bottles or spoons of liquid held to her lips, their contents tipped down her throat—by Madam Pomfrey. Two tinctures were dropped in her eyes and more soothing gel slicked upon her neck and cheeks.
Hermione felt the last vestiges of her consciousness slip away as the last potion slid down her throat.
The blissfullness of what she fleetingly recognized as dreamless sleep pulled her under, wrapping her in its embrace once more.
****dhdhdhdhdhdhdhd****
"How long have I been here?"
"Madame Pomfrey turned, apparently startled to see Hermione awake.
"Miss Granger, how are you feeling?"
Madam Pomfrey bustled around her bed, clinking bottles as she replenished the empty jars with full versions.
Once free of their prescribed duty of care, her hands seemed to seek busy work, her eyes hovering but never fully meeting Hermione gaze.
Her wand flicked, removing any traces of dust that might have settled over the side table since she'd last visited Hermione. She straightened the bed linens, and was apparently about to fluff Hermione's pillow when Hermione had had enough.
"Madam! What happened to me? Why am I here? Where are Harry and Ron?"
A shadow passed across the mediwitches face at Hermione's words before a smile was again plastered across her lips.
"I'll be but a moment Miss Granger. The headmaster wishes to speak with you."
"Apologies, Madam Pomfrey," the silken drawl of the potions professor accompanied the man as he stepped out of the shadows. "The headmaster has been... delayed."
"Delayed? What's more important than—"
The look he bestowed upon the Mediwitch had Hermione's heart lodge in her throat.
"Right!" Snapped Madam Pomfrey. "Oh! That blasted man!"
Hermione was agog as the matron spun on her heal and all but marched out of the infirmary on a cloud of piss and vinegar. Apparently, that man from earlier... was the Headmaster!
Left alone as the heavy Infirmary doors closed, Hermione regarded the man in front of her. His normally taciturn features had a softness to them, almost as if…he was worried. This realization filled her with unease.
"What day is it Sir?" She asked, the words tentative, soft.
"It's July 6th Miss Granger. You've been a ward of the infirmary for just over a month."
Hermione felt a pang as she realized she'd missed the end of term. She'd missed...
"HARRY!" She attempted to once again push herself up, but Professor Snape's clipped words halted her movements as if he'd physically held her in place. Such was the force behind each syllable.
"Mr. Potter, and the rest of his…abettors…are with their guardians and families."
His jaw, which she'd thought showed softness not moments ago, was once again tight and hard lined as he spat her best friends name from between his thin lips.
She felt relief wash over her—Harry lived. He was ok!
'But why am I here? Did they try contacting my…I wonder if that's why the Headmaster wants to have a chat…?'
"Sir… what, what happened? I don't…"
Hermione wracked her brain, trying to make sense of the flashes of memories bombarding her now that she was fully awake. "I was dueling, I'd silenced a Death Eater, there was a purple light… that's the last thing I remember."
Hermione's stomach sank as her normally stoic professor all but folded into the chair next to her bed. Waving his wand, he murmured something she couldn't make out.
Judging by the fact the matron didn't turn around to glare at him when he dragged the chair closer to her bedside, Hermione suspected privacy spells.
He fixed his gaze steadily upon her, his onyx eyes appraising her unflinchingly.
"Miss Granger, let me be perfectly clear. Had you not silenced the wizard you were dueling, we would not be sitting here conversing. That spell, that curse… it is the crown of his signature repertoire. Unblockable."
She sucked in a breath.
"Lethal," she whispered, her heart pounding at how close she'd come to death.
He rubbed a hand down his face.
"Before we speak further, I must ensure complete confidence regarding what I'm about to discuss.
Hermione nodded, her muddled mind attempting to grasp what her professor was asking.
'Of course I'll keep his confidence,' she thought, bitterly remembering third year, the year she'd realized the difference between what was easy and what was right.
That the man in front of her, though incredibly acidic and prone to infantile outbursts, had not once put her best friend in harms way. Nor herself. Rather, he'd put himself in front of what she suspected was a bone deep fear of his to protect Harry. Protect herself. Despite being an utter prick at times and his clear dislike of the boy she considered as close as a sibling.
Not like the man whom she'd spent a whole year protecting, ensuring the knowledge of what he'd been inflicted with as a child didn't get out.
That man, that professor, had shown her that those serving the 'right' side—the good side—didn't necessarily have those qualities themselves.
They could do just as much harm under the guise of the light, as those muddling around in the dark.
And vice versa.
She was brought up short when he laid his hand almost against hers, hovering near where hers lay against the stark white linens.
"I need a wizards oath but can't bring in a binder. Unfortunately."
He drew a small vial and dagger—no more than the length of a field mouse—from the depths of his cloak.
"I need… do you consent, Ms Granger, to take an oath of Hecate?"
"What is—" her words caught in her throat as she wheezed.
A goblet of water was suddenly pressed against her lips, his hand steady as she drank in greedy sips allowing herself to take comfort in the hat he offered.
"Sir, What is an oath of Hecate? I mean, I've read all about her, Hecate, since I learned I was a witch! But I've never seen mention of an oath in her name in any books—"
His hand raised, dismissing her words and she fell silent as his lips twisted.
If she hadn't been looking at him as closely as she was, Hermione would have missed his facial tick. As it was, the slight thinning of his already needle thin lips reminded her that, though she held him in esteem, the feeling was far from mutual.
"Of course you wouldn't have read about it, you naive inconceivable excuse for—" he cut himself off, squeezing the bridge of his nose between the long spindly fingers she'd spent countless hours of potions class watching.
"Forgive me." He whispered, sending Hermione's eyebrows to rest under the fringe that scattered her forehead. "That was… I was…please, forgive me."
Seeing the dour professor falter in his typical virulent tirade—hearing an apology of all things—set Hermione on edge more than finding herself awake and alone earlier in the hospital wing save for the smells and the mediwitch.
"Sir?"
"This is magic older than most alive are even aware of. It's older than a wizard oath. Older than the stones used to craft the castle in which we reside. It is magic forgotten, but that formed the essence…" he paused again, as if steeling himself, his eyes snapping to hers as he all but whispered, "the essence and core of which blood purity was established."
Emotions warred within her at hearing blood purity.
How could this concept of blood and superiority be nonsense if it was something this professor whispered about, deference coating each syllable.
A man, who deferred to none other.
A man, who knew of magic past what she'd ever conceived to imagine.
Once again, she was an outsider, blood purity tied into a yet another concept or ritual she was not privy to.
Her own But she could be…
Disgust and intrigue melded with anticipation and a bone deep weariness, blooming to mingle amidst the air she breathed in shallow breathes.
'So. Bloody. Frustrating!'
No matter how well read or learned in the ways of magic she was, Hermione would never be enough.
Never know enough.
She held his gaze, her determination sparking what could be approval and pride in his onyx eyes.
"Tell me what I need to do."
