The next time Hermione awoke more than tortuous moments, her head pounded like hippogriffs had stampeded through. Apart from her head, her arm ached, not with pain, but with… something she couldn't articulate.

A tingle, that spread from her forearm up through and seemed to connect… somewhere central to her chest.

'My heart?'

As she lay there, eyes closed to slowly assimilate to wakefulness, she was glad to notice the blistering yellow light was thankfully gone, as was the smell of antiseptic and feeling of starched linens.

She blinked, scratchy eyes adjusting to the flicker of light splashing the walls from a fire in the corner, attempting to gain perspective of her surroundings.

On the wall across from her bed, a large portrait of a stern faced woman glared out from within the frame, the lack of movement lending assumption to its muggle nature.

There was something oddly familiar about the portraits features, though try as she might Hermione couldn't seem to grasp the thread of who or where she'd seen them before.

Her head not letting up on the throbbing pain, she gave up on puzzling out the portrait's identity as a bad job and turned her attention to the bed she inhabited.

The linens—fleece if she recalled correctly—that encased her were soft.

Pliable.

Reminiscent of winters spent with her family before she'd received her letter.

The scent of nettles, juniper, and the soothing smell of fire-warmed balsam filled her nostrils, helping ease her into the land of awakening.

'Where am I?' she wondered, not for the first time since awakening after the battle at the ministry.

"Thank Morgana, you're still with us."

A soft voice full of emotion pulled Hermione's attention away from her sensory perusal.

She turned, a gasp escaping from her lips as she took in the woman before her.

Half hidden by shadow, Hermione could tell she was pale, her skin reminiscent of softly fallen snow, with hair to match save for the silky under curtain of deepest ebony. Her features were delicate in nature, as dainty and refined as Hermione's nana's bone china tea service.

And yet… she could tell there was an interesting mix of steel and aristocratic elegance that shaped each aspect of her countenance. From her clothing, to her posture, to her mannerisms.

Steel, aristocracy, and fatigue.

Despite her apparent exhaustion, this was a woman whose worth was incontrovertible.

Hers was another appearance that tugged at Hermione's memory, though she couldn't grasp this thread either.

'Muggle, or witch? Why does she look so familiar, yet…'

The woman's expression was pinched, again, spiking a thought that Hermione should remember something… but the pinch was not as if something rancid had been placed under her nose. It appeared almost…worried.

'Worry for me? Or worry because of me?'

"Severus asked me to give you this upon awakening. He had matters to attend that dare not wait."

In her hand a clear bottle was held out, label facing Hermione so she could see what was being proffered.

Despite not knowing where she was or who the woman in front of her was, Hermione's shoulders relaxed. The tension seeping out at the mention of Severus.

'Witch then.'

Her hands trembled as she reached for the vial, yet nothing as bad as the tremors—the lack of strength—she experienced in the infirmary.

"Only one?"

"For now."

Hermione's hand paused mid-reach, making no move to take the offered potion, her eyes conveying her suspicions at this truncated perfunctory response. Her shoulders tightened, and her fingers automatically went to feel for her—missing—wand under the covers.

'Where in Hades name is my wand' she thought, then caught sight of it nestled beside an ornate picture frame of what looked to be a family vignette and a hairbrush with black strands still threaded amongst the tines.

Times like this, she wished fervently that she'd mastered non-verbal summoning. Or at least attempted it!

The witch nodded, just a tip of her chin downward but deference inferred, and a—was that proud—smile ghosted her rose tinted lips.

"Severus will administer the remaining seven vials and drops when he returns. He thought it best…"

She broke off, placing the potion down upon the night stand and gliding toward the window. Only after she'd pulled— not magicked—the curtains closed, did she continue, her finger trailing along the wooden sill in a show of cultured nonchalance.

"He thought it best we become reacquainted while you were in control of your faculties."

"Re-acquainted? I'm sorry madam… oh!"

As the woman tilted her face so the firelight caressed each feature, throwing the in full light, Hermione knew… that chin, that nose, that bloody smile…

She knew who this woman was!

'Get. Out.' Hermione bit out through clenched teeth.

She was furious. Absolutely bloody furious… with a bone deep vulnerability spreading through her veins every second spent in the woman's company as she stared down at her, lying prone in bed. In wherever the hades she was currently—not Hogwarts, that much was obvious now.

She grit her teeth lest she show this woman how affected she was, outside of justifiable rage.

'Her sister! Her son! How could Professor Snape have ever thought this a good idea?'

'Miss Granger, I believe—"

"I said, get OUT!"

"What's all this? You know Severus said she wasn't to be disturbed?"

The door had opened while Hermione was shouting—or, as loud a shout as one just recovering from a bout of serious illness could whisper—and a man stood just inside the entrance to her room. A man who, despite her reservations and lack of respect toward, she felt at minimum a kinship to.

At least in this moment.

'Professor, remove this woman," she saturated the word with as much venom as possible, gratified when a hint of pink blossomed across the witch's cheeks, and her eyes tightened. Only a fraction, but enough to signal the barb had registered. "Remove her from my room and bar any save for Professor Snape to enter."

"Hermione—"

"NOW Remus!" she was at the end of her tether, physically, emotionally, and mentally. If that ruddy excuse for a professor wouldn't do as she asked, politeness could stuff it.

In her mind, she was far above being his equal, and it had nothing to do with his affliction and everything to do with the yellow liver belly he'd shown her.

That he continued to show her.

"Narcissa," Remus sighed, jerking his head to the hallway beyond. He waited patiently for the woman to leave before he turned toward Hermione, blocking exit and entrance to her doorway.

"I'm glad you're alive Hermione. There's so much… but it's best to—"

"I'll wait for Professor Snape to discuss what next steps he deems best. Thank you for removing… unwanted visitors." She nodded at him, dismissing him alongside the witch he'd just removed.

She had no love lost for the man who stood slouched and defeated in front of her. If she didn't get answers and the chance to lay into the one who had made such an asinine lapse in judgment as what she'd awaken to, well, she'd take it by proxy.

Professor Lupin, nay, Remus, would do.

Despite how grief worn and hollow he currently looked.

She didn't care about his grief.

They all grieved something or someone.

Such were the taxes of war.

She, unlike Harry, hadn't been given leave to call him by his given name. But by Morgana she'd be dammed if she'd defer to that coward. For all his waxing poetic about being best friends with Harry's dad and by assumption Lily Potter nee Evans, where had he been while her best friend was abused during his formative years?

And if he hadn't known… a convenient excuse, that… where had he been between the ages of eleven and thirteen, when Harry had entered the wizarding world?

Not there, not caring for her best friend. In any capacity.

That man's own self loathing kept him from offering an orphan the one thing he'd needed—someone to care for him. To advocate and protect him.

Just because he was Harry Potter, son of James Potter, Remus's supposed best mate.

Not as the boy who lived.

But he'd failed him.

He'd failed her.

She'd kept his secret third year, out of misguided honor and sense of compassion. And he'd mucked it up so far past the point of comprehension that she'd broken several laws of nature and statute to ensure her and Harry didn't end up mauled at the end of his snout that evening.

Never mind that Remus had been within a castle's reach of Harry all year, and hadn't once sat him down to tell him stories of his parents, his first year of life, anything…

All at the direction and encouragement of a Headmaster she was realizing may not be as worthy of reverence as she'd originally decided he was.

Pedestals with men are apt to topple at some point, as was her mother's saying.

Not counting the appalling manner with which him and Sirius had treated Professor Snape—despite being bloody adults for Athena's sake. They could have done the responsible thing and hashed out their history over a cup of tea. Or a minimum wait until children weren't around to start throwing their wands around.

But no, they had to all engage as adolescents.

She still felt badly about the thrice thrown spell that knocked out the surly professor, no matter that at the time she was still under the delusion of good being wrapped up in sweater vests and evil the epitome of darkness personified.

She'd felt especially remorseful once she learned of more to that triangle from Harry. The rest of what ran between her two professors and the innocent fugitive.

She closed her eyes against Remus's wounded expression, and upon the click that signaled her isolation within her room once again, let her shoulders lose what tension that woman's presence had wrought. Reaching over she grasped the vial left behind on the night stand, and downed it in one gulp after removing the stopper.

As she drifted off to sleep, she was thankful for one thing.

The potion was a calming drought.

Tolerable.

Nothing that would dull her tongue nor cloud her thoughts.

Seeing as she'd definitely need her faculties and wits about her when her professor came back to give the rest of her healing regimen.