A/N: I never introduced this story. Well! Here goes:

Summary: After the Department of Mysteries debacle, Hermione is struggling to recover from Dolohov's curse and the effects it has on her person-and her magic. She survives initially with quick thinking and after with the help of the Potions Master. But she wants more than survival. She wants to live for something... and what was there better to live for than repaying a debt? HG/SS.

In terms of other pairings, I honestly haven't really decided. I tend to lean towards HP/GW or DM/GW... if you're looking for a particular ship beyond HG/SS and you review frequently, let me know what you want. This story follows events of OotP and is A/U, in a sense. I haven't posted any fanfiction in ten years... but I'm open to constructive criticism.

Above all else: Thank you, Jo, for everything. Here's to you!

Chapter One
The Curse

Hermione Granger was a disgrace to her house.

At least, that was what she was thinking to herself as she clung tightly to the arm of her best friend, Harry Potter, as they and Neville Longbottom contemplated the options before them. They could hide… or run.

It was simple fight or flight response, of course, to freeze for the barest of moments as one's head and body struggled to analyze the best options for survival. At the current moment, she was facing an onslaught of ruthless maniacs eager to please their master: an even more ruthless megalomaniac. They wanted what they had and they were willing to torture, maim, and kill them all to get it.

Any true Gryffindor would have been in their element, or so Hermione had learned, after five years of adventures at the side of Harry Potter. He couldn't explain the magical theory behind the simplest of spells, but put him in a life-or-death situation and he could conjure the brightest, most breath-taking Patronus or the fiercest, truest stunner. Hermione, however, was not very good at life-or-death, and she definitely was not feeling very Gryffindor at the moment. In fact, she felt as if she were standing at the edge of the Astronomy Tower in her first year again—her mind was at a total standstill, devoid of thought or logic, numb except to the fear that was throbbing in every pore of her being at the sight of the hard, unmalleable ground hundreds, thousands of feet below.

Harry—brave Harry—was quick on his feet, in the true fashion of a Gryffindor, and had managed to put distance between them and their tormentors using instinct and luck. Hermione had followed his lead as quickly as she could while trying not to suffocate on her fear. In the heat of the moment as they fled in a shower of falling prophecies, she lost track of Ron, Ginny, and Luna.

Despair began to tug at her conscience, halting her breathing—images of redheads being suffocated and bound, a blonde girl being cursed to her knees—before someone yanked her back to reality.

Harry was tugging on her arm—leading her through a door and then down to duck under a desk. Hermione stumbled and gasped, then felt the familiar flow of intelligence spark as she realized she had just alerted intruders to their location. Two black-hooded, white-masked figures turned towards their direction, waving light-tipped wands as they stalked closer. Her insides quelled as she began to contemplate what they would have to do to escape now… She, Harry, and Neville had run and now had hid, but both choices had led to detection.

How many Death Eaters were waiting for them at every corner of the Department? Her mind raced as she tried to seek out the answer—only to be distracted by the jittering in her hands and the wetness at the nape of her neck from sweat.

Her mind was screeching at her now to do something, anything.

Think, Hermione!

"Stupefy!"

Harry had chosen action—they would keep running. He dragged her and Neville along with him, naturally, out from their cover and towards the looming door—their escape. Hermione could practically feel the adrenaline running through Harry's veins, turning his blood hot to protect him from the fear that was turning hers cold. Neville stumbled, but lifted his wand in tandem with Harry's as they backed towards the door. The muscles of her belly clenched when she realized that she had not offensively brandished her own, and was a small distance in front of them both, defenseless.

She lifted her wand, her mouth only half-open—"Avada…"—her body began to react, but nowhere near quickly enough. Her feet argued with her shoulders on whether to fall or jump, her tongue and lips struggled to decide to whisper or shout. She felt Harry gasp – "Kedavra!"

The sickly green spell did not hit its mark—her heart—but rather spiraled off to the right as the wand-arm of the man was sent wildly. Green light zipped inches away, and landed against the wall at her back.

The gurgling sound of agitation that came from the man would echo in her head for minutes afterwards. Before the sickly green light had even descended over them, he had turned his head and growled. His wand was lifted and another curse was at his lips. Harry was disoriented and was gathering his own, as he had dove for the man wholeheartedly. Hermione's own hand began to curl tightly over her wand, though the words she wanted did not grace her lips.

So much for being a Gryffindor, she wailed inwardly.

"E-Expelliarmus!"

Despite his stuttering, the spell was spoken with force—too much force. Neville proved himself a surer lion than herself, and disarmed both Harry and the man, Rabastan Lestrange. He kicked at Harry, who bore the blow with as much grace as possible, clutching the prophecy to his chest while simultaneously reaching for his dangling wand and wincing. Neville yanked his wand down excitedly, sending both of his captured weapons scattering to the floor, rather than allowing them to sail neatly into his hands.

Hermione felt her blood heat—Harry had just thoughtlessly thrown himself in the direction of a killing curse for her. Neville had reacted to protect him as if it were his second nature to do so. She, his best friend, was standing there like an idiot, letting her fear take hold of her rather than using it as a weapon.

What was she doing, standing there like an idiot? She should be acting.

Her wand hummed in her hand—a familiar beacon of strength and familiarity. She remembered the first time she had ever held it. When the vine wood shifted from cold to warm, her heart had clenched and her lips quivered with a gasp that was half-surprise and half-relief. With her parents and McGonagall watching, she had lifted the wood as if she had been born to do it—and she had been born to it, after all.

All the doubt she had ever felt melted away when that wand—her wand—sang a cacophony of sparks that hit the ceiling and spilled around her in a shower of glory she would never forget. Although she hid behind her knowledge, nothing could ever compare to the feeling of magic flowing through her veins and spouting from her wand in choruses of sound and light.

Sing for me, she willed as she spoke firmly, her wrist straight as she jutted her arm forward, "Stupefy!"

There was no time to watch the man slump forward. Her red spell had hit its mark soundly and surely. As she jerked along with Neville for the door, she saw the jar fall and hit their enemy over the head. It made a large, dull shattering sound that echoed through the chamber. He jerked and shouted, but it was drowned into a strange, high-pitched wail, that of a child. Harry was pulling her onward as the Death Eater's head began to shrink and grow in size, Neville quick behind, towards the door through the next chamber to leave him to his fate.

Her senses were finally erupting—magic was throbbing in her hand and she could feel her heart beat in tandem with it. Fear and magic, the weapons of a born Gryffindor witch.

Her hair stood on end as they rushed into the Time Chamber, alerting her that there was something, or someone, waiting…

…but it was too late.

"Impedimenta!"

Once more, Hermione was suspended, her feet locked into place on the floor. Her mind, her greatest weapon, however, was alive now, thrumming with energy.

Help was coming. Professor Snape was sending them help. There was no doubt in her heart that he would send for the Order to meet them here, to save them. She wondered if he knew they were here, if he had suspected they would go as far as they had gone. She had pleaded they think it through. But that was in the past…

Now, she needed to focus on the now. They just need to survive a little longer—they needed to fight, then run, and then they needed to hide.

The pair of reapers' wands lowered as they observed their prizes. Whatever words they spoke were muffled to Hermione, save their names… Dolohov and Jugson. They were proud. They deserved this after all they had spent in Azkaban. They deserved a good torture, and the glory that would be brought for having caught the Potter brat and obtained the Prophecy.

She was able to recover rather quickly, to the surprise of the first, who immediately made a large gasp, as if they were going to shout for help.

"Silencio!" She crowed, snapping her wand to and fro. The spell was effective—the man waved his arms as he shouted a spell, but no sound was heard. His partner had lifted his wand and was aiming it at her. Harry, too, had broken free, and his spell was quicker. One reaper fell hard to the floor like a fallen trunk, his arms and legs snapped at his sides, unable to shout for help or retaliate.

Hermione had been hit by spells before. She was a witch, after all, and this was the nature of wizardry, to cast and be casted upon. She had practiced dueling with Harry and Dumbledore's Army and felt and read about all kinds of offensive spells—jinxes that stung, hexes that burned, curses that ached for hours afterwards. But this spell…

She didn't scream, or shout. Her only response was a tight gasp as her body curled inward in shock. For an instance, it felt like a thousand needles were piercing a line of skin from her shoulder bone to her hip. And then, it burned cold, like when wet fingers became stuck to ice.

Hermione fumbled to the floor. Her fingers clutched at her shirt, as if peeling at the fabric would relieve her of the irritating feeling that ran from her shoulder to her hip. There was no blood, though she could not tell through the haze of pain that had consumed her, though she would rather it be bloody than hurt so oddly as it did.

Sounds reached her ears, but she could not process the array of voices, as her body began to feel like not her own. The pain—the cold, heartless pain was ebbing as her consciousness began to spill into blackness.

Beyond her crunched, trembling body, Neville Longbottom's wand was snapped and his nose was crushed under the fists of the man who had savagely cursed Hermione Granger. Harry Potter's voice could be heard, shouting incoherently.

There was commotion—the red light of a stunner. Shelves were sent falling around her, like meteorites slamming the earth's surface, making small earthquakes around her. The vibrations were enough to revive her. She blinked awake, and there were lights drifting above her, wandering stars that burned her eyes to look at. She whimpered as a wave of nausea began to replace the pain and her brain spun wildly. She reached out, searchingly, for the comfort of her wand. She ached for its warmth—for the melody of protection it could weave in her soul.

There was no comfort, however, only emptiness. Her fingertips scraped hard, cold ground, and squeezed desperately when her body began to grow numb and foreign.

"We have to go!" Somebody shouted.

No, leave me, let me die, leave me… she felt her body being lifted and terror began to mix with the frost. No words could be found as her mind was desperately trying to cope with the pain—sending her into a state of dulled thought. It surged and peaked, leaving her once again breathless and desperate. The spots where she was touched squealed and revolted. Her chest tightened as her breathing became shallow.

She had always enjoyed the cold. Now…

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

"Hold on, Hermione, hold on. Help's coming. We're going to make it out. Stay with me."

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

Hermione felt her body tensing, her mind slipping. All feeling had gone to her fingertips and toes and her head was extremely heavy.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

Blackness beckoned. It was a far better fate than the surging waves of nausea and pain, the chilling cold she had once associated with fear and now beckoned with relief. Her brain was willing her to let go, and as much as she struggled, she was powerless to it.

To say that for destruction ice

Neville's rough breathing and Harry's sharp instructions slipped away as Hermione's thoughts faded to nothing.

Is also great

And would suffice.

"Fucking Potter."

The halls reverberated the sound of his swearing. As it often did in times like these, the dulcet timbres of his voice had grown coarse and unrefined, reflecting the careless dialect of his Northern heritage. Although no one was there to hear it, the frustrations he felt were only soured further as he was reminded of a part of himself he had labored to change for the better of twenty-five years.

Severus' night had very quickly gone from unpleasant to dire, thanks to the machinations of the schools' resident celebrity. He had seen for himself that the dog was alive, much to his own displeasure—and sought out the Headmaster as soon as he was able to without consequence. By the time this work was done, he had headed briskly towards the Forbidden Forest to complete the unpleasant task of retrieving the two students who had so eagerly delved within. He had hoped with the guidance of Miss Granger that Potter might survive the dangers within and find a semblance of reason. In the best case scenario, he would have been incapacitated and thus unable to go sniffing at the trail that the Dark Lord had very blatantly set before him.

But his wishes—as usual—were denied. The wards were screeching at him the second he stepped onto the grounds. The deed was far past done—six students had left Hogwarts without looking back…not that any of them had a sensible bone in their bodies to think deeply about the consequences of their actions before performing them.

To make matters worse, the High Inquisitor, froggy little cunt that she was, was currently being tossed around by the centaurs and was undoubtedly going to seek recourse afterwards. McGonagall was in recovery at St. Mungo's, although he was slightly relieved as he was not currently being heckled incessantly. Dumbledore was orchestrating the rescue mission that should not have been needed in the first place, and was not technically permitted on the grounds. That left him to deal with Umbridge's displeasing shrieks—and to defend Hogwarts, a job he had performed dutifully for decades, although it gave him very little pleasure.

Severus Snape was not the first that any of the castle's young wards, save Slytherin House, would look to first when the world would begin to fall apart. Currently, however, he was the best they had.

No one was awake at this hour, save a few of the more restless portraits. He swept past them as if they were not there, ignoring the whispers and peeking eyes that trailed after him. A few hopped from their frames in curiosity, wondering where the Potions Master was headed with such purpose. They were used to seeing the stalking figure of Severus Snape late at night, but tonight his stride was the one of a man with direction, rather than the wandering of an insomniac. It took a handful of minutes for him to reach the Hospital Wing from the Entrance Hall, and by the time he arrived a dozen characters had crammed themselves into the frame of St. Mungo's mother.

He swept into the portrait-less Wing with a smirk in their direction.

Madam Poppy Pomfrey glared outward at him from through the cracked door that led into her adjoining rooms. She had emerged expecting a weepy first year or desperate fifth or seventh year having a nightmare over exams and found herself face to face with the tall, dark Head of Slytherin House.

When she saw Severus, however, her expression softened slightly. Suddenly, he felt like a young boy again, sneaking into the Hospital Wing to steal bandages, being caught by the nurse. Even when he lied and said he jinxed himself, she didn't punish him, but played along, tending to his wounds and sending him off rather than forcing him to stay. She knew what it meant to be a Slytherin—you played your part, and silently if you were smart.

"Severus, what is it?" There was weariness in her voice. She was looking him up and down with eyes that were more crinkled than he remembered and were critically searching for injury.

Her sympathy, however, was undeserved. He had made the choices that brought him to the brinks of death and no longer considered himself worthy of her small affections. It was a small punishment, to deny her concern, but he bore it for the sake of his sanity.

"I wish to waste as little of my personal time here, as possible, Madam," he spoke with an impatient scowl. With a wave of his hand, he Conjured an array of potions and strode past her. He had no idea what to expect, or prepare for, thus the stock was large and sprawled over the entire space of counter.

Poppy was not one to fret or indulge in questioning…anyone who worked under Albus Dumbledore for very long was used to being kept at least partially in the dark. Although she dealt with most of the aftermath, the Hogwarts mediwitch was the type of woman who preferred to stay mostly in the dark in the goings on of the war. Perhaps this was how she could still stomach to stand him, even after knowing what and who he was.

"How many?" she asked briskly with a narrowing of her eyes at his back. Without much effort, she began to turn down beds, waving her wand at the cabinets at the far end of the Hospital Wing for bandages and the like.

Severus had no idea, though his stomach began to turn as he calculated possible casualties. Not only had Potter snuck off to the Ministry of Magic, he had taken five other students with him. Weasley and Miss Granger, naturally, would follow, but the other three were not quite so used to the sickeningly heroic antics of the Golden Trio. He had known where their loyalties would take them, but not that they would take them as far as they had.

Ginny Weasley was understandable, considering her family's predilections for heroics and a previous brush with death at the personal hand of the Dark Lord. He couldn't imagine Longbottom or Miss Lovegood facing off against Goyle (who was as worthless as his son), let alone any of the three Lestranges…

His left arm began to ache, but it compared nothing to the ill will he suddenly felt in his gut at the vision of crumpled bodies of children at the heel of Bella. Rage tickled the surface, though he quelled it as it came with a slight intake of breath akin to a sigh of frustration. He was an angry man—that would never change. But at the moment, his anger would do him no good. As much as he wanted to strangle the stupidity out of Potter for falling for the Dark Lord's smoke and mirrors, it would have to wait for another night. Specifically, for a night the twit was actually in front of him, and the old coot was not there to restrain him.

Severus' silence was enough to send Madam Pomfrey to busy herself with preparing for the worst—organizing a vast amount of Pepper-Up Potion and Calming Draught, several jars of bruise balm and burn salve, as well as small amounts of Skele-Gro and Blood-Replenishing Potion. Severus carefully procured a trio of vials from his pocket and placed them at the forefront of the others.

Pomfrey glanced at them as she passed by him and froze. She had only ever seen a potion of this particular color—a milky, grayish blue, topped with foamy violet bubbles—while recently treating Severus. In particular, when treating Severus after painfully eventful visits with the man whose name the Wizarding World could not speak without shuddering.

She didn't look in his direction any longer. He loomed at the window, glaring over the grounds. Although he had expressed distaste in spending more time than needed in the Hospital Wing, he made no motion to leave.

When Hermione woke, all she heard was screaming.

The pain in her chest was violent, but it was not overly cumbersome. Her belly felt hot—filled with a warmth that she could not place, but one that she had recognized before. In her mind's eye, she ached for the silence of the curse as it struck her, and she felt her bones rattle in response. A weight was pressing against her forehead, behind her eyes, making her feel disoriented and only half-herself. Boiling amber bubbled lazily in her veins, making the world around her feel heavy and hot.

Although it hurt to do so, she stretched her hand out, reaching for the one comfort she had… her wand was not there, however. It was gone. Someone had taken it, or they had left it. The heat in her belly surged with her effort to find it as the screams mixed with laughter.

After a moment, wails and chortles drifted into silence. With her surroundings somewhat silent, she could think again. The thought sickened her that she could belittle someone's pain like that, but she was glad for the quiet. It was hard enough trying to think through the warm, disorienting fog that her body was enveloped in.

What is going on? She wondered to herself. Both her world and the world around her felt as if they had been flipped upside down. She was nowhere recognizable, all stone and echoed voices, and she was forcing sweat out from her eyes with furious blinks. Her throat was full and scratchy. Had someone turned up the heat?

No, she reasoned. The only cold she felt—barely through the haze of heat she was expelling— was at the stone at her fingertips and a slashing over her chest.

"Now, wittle Potter, what do you say?" The sound of the voice was enough to make Hermione's stomach twist once more. Whatever magic was healing her revolted at the shrill, manic tone. The pool of honey was growing larger, expanding to her torso to surround the chill in her lungs. It was a strange feeling, one she usually associated with her palm—a surge of power, a flicker of her very essence of being.

Was this magic? She pondered.

Her wand was nowhere to be found, but there was no denying the familiar warmth rapidly spreading in her chest. It was one and the same.

…At the center of the Magical Nervous System is the magical core—the pool on which a wizard stores and retrieves his magic. Even some of the most perceptive of wizards are unable to describe the essence of their magic—those who can describe it as a weight or pressure, most often in the chest or belly…

"Stop it!" Harry spat. Harry… where was he?

Hermione shifted slightly. The movement of her shoulders put pressure on her back. The floor was hard and cold beneath her, though it came as no relief to her. Rather it was odd, having flaring flesh pressed to icy stone.

She could hear someone muttering incessantly nearby.

"Pretty brain, pretty brain…ha ha ha, HA…"

"Stop it!" The woman mimicked, "Baby Potter doesn't want me to hurt his wittle fwend."

"Brain…ha ha…"

"Stop—Stop. Here!" Harry wasn't hesitant, "I'll give it to you."

Hermione jolted her head up, though every inch of her revolted at the thought. Her body was being pinched inward, the focus at her chest. Her skin was slick with sweat—it dripped from her hair, down her neck, droplets that slid and practically sizzled from the heat of her flesh. At least at her chest, she felt numbed—but that too, felt wrong. There was an absence of pain, which suggested something far worse was at hand.

She managed to twist onto her belly, even as she heard Lucius Malfoy praising Harry for his wise choice. Ron, feet away, muttered louder—it was obvious he was afflicted by a spell or something. Blonde hair was sprawled in a fan over the floor to his left. Luna had been hurt. Ginny was not much farther away. She had landed on her side and curled into a ball.

They were both so motionless it made her heart quiver with doubt.

Bellatrix—it could only be her—giggled sickeningly when Harry let out another strangled plea. As if to emphasize his efforts, he lifted his hand. The orb was clutched in it so tightly she wondered why it hadn't shattered.

"No…" she croaked as she crumpled back onto her elbows. She was sprawled over the stone now, her belly hard against the floor. Something was terribly, terribly wrong in her chest. The warmth of her body signaled an infection. She knew as much from her years as the child of two medically trained Muggles. There as a war going on inside her body—a war of cold and hot.

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

"No, Hawwy…." Neville croaked. Hermione could hear the same shaky despair she felt in her own heart in his voice. He was on the floor, though his body was trembling violently. His breath was ragged and his voice was strained—the screams had been his, after all. Hermione could see the tightness in his jaw, and noticed fresh blood had begun to mix with the dried blood that had fallen from his nose. It was as swollen and red as his twisted nose—he had bit it in his agony.

Her eyes quickly found Harry. He was standing, Neville just out of reach, his arm outstretched towards the reaching hand of Lucius Malfoy, the orb glittering in his hand. The glow of it was sickening, like that of the Killing Curse, but blue rather than green. She crouched in horror as Harry willingly was giving it over, his grip lightening in defeat with Neville crumpled at his feet.

Several wands were trained on the broken boy, on Harry, and towards her. All masks, however, were turned towards the orb. They could not turn their attention away from it as they reveled in their singular victory.

"Harry—" she croaked, "Stop!"

His resolve was broken. His green eyes—green like grass, like frogs—tilted away from the orb and towards her, bright as his bravery. Lucius Malfoy was lifting his wand to snatch the precious Prophecy away, even as Harry began to tighten his grip around it once more.

Unfortunately for the blonde Death Eater, the Order had arrived, and in full swing.

"Expelliarmus!"

The spell hit him square in the shoulder and sent his wand zooming away. The Prophecy was suspended in the air, as he had been levitating it to his palm. Harry jolted at the sound of curses and jinxes ricocheting off walls and zooming around him to hit Death Eaters, and dove for it. Some of those surrounding him fell to the floor, cold; others jerked to safety.

"You fools!" Shrieked Bellatrix Lestrange, a furious woman with sickeningly thin cheeks and knotted black hair.

The Prophecy Harry held was shattered on the ground, having slipped from his fingers at the last moment. Bellatrix's comrades cared only to defend themselves from the preemptive attack of the Order—forgetting the purpose of their mission.

The wailing of the prophecy was drowned by the commotion of the duels that ensued. Bellatrix was torn away from it herself as her cousin, Sirius Black, was quickly upon her. Harry stared in horror at the prophecy and its wispy phantom, but did not mourn for long. He grabbed Neville and began to pull him away from the thicket of duels, nearer to Hermione.

Once he was certain Neville was a safe distance away, he joined the fight.

Hermione ached for her wand. She thought she might have the courage to join Harry—or at least protect Luna, Ron, and Ginny. Where is it?Hot liquid shifted in her chest, like a ship that was shifting at the will of the wind.

"Protect the children!" Someone said, their thoughts aligned with her own, but no one was listening.

Remus Lupin—the speaker—had managed to defeat an opponent and was stepping towards them to take his own advice, but immediately was torn away from his intent by two Death Eaters shooting cutting curses in his path.

Hermione shuddered as she tried to push herself up again. Ron was just beyond her reach and she could grab his wand. There was enough distractions as it was, but she felt bare without one. Why did she need it?

She was desperate for it. Desperate for the magic. She needed the magic. She needed the wand.

"Ahh," she cried loudly, clutching at her chest. The pain was surging again, rearing against the swaying warmth of her belly that was trying to quell her back to sleep.

Get it together, Granger! She told herself. Harry was fighting. Neville, too. The Order members were outnumbered. They needed her. She needed to… what could she do?

She began to crawl towards Ron, biting down on her lip and bidding the pain to secede as she hung onto the strings of bravery and righteousness. It was a vain attempt at first, but the effort was enough to make her stronger and allowed her to close the gap between them.

"Brain, brain… Pretty planets, too…Ha, ha…ha…" He was muttering, rolling back and forth, laughing. His eyes were open wide, however, staring outward and yet at nothing. His wand was sticking out of his pocket, ripe for the plucking.

The smooth, winding vine of her own wand was missed sorely as she lifted the slightly square handled wand out of Ron's pocket. His was too long, too hard, and too sharp in design. Her fingers were slick and clumsy as she held it, but the urge that had led her to it was compelling her to hold it as tightly as possible.

You know what to do, she began to think. Hermione's mind was racing. She needed the wand, but what for?

You've been cursed with Dark Magic. Its power was dulled because you silenced your attacker. Dark Magic requires words. To have ill intent, you must speak ill intent.

What was the nature?

Violet. The color of royalty…but also a color of great power. Associated with supernatural energy: mystery, conceit, and pomposity. A color of mourning. Purple, when associated with spells, suggested the spell was created with the intent to be seen and admired, or feared. To instill wonder…or dread.

The cold numbness she felt suggested the curse had anesthetic properties—although this could have been a side-effect of silence. If it was a property, then the spell was one that could be used to affect her nervous system…

She squeezed her eyes closed and sought for information. The images of books began to flash in front of her. The Magical Body flew from the bookshelf into her hand.

Hermione reached for her stomach. Her palm pressed into her belly—just above her navel, where she imagined her diaphragm would be, where the burning sensation was the hottest and the firmest. She clutched the soaked fabric of her shirt and trembled, squeezing it almost as tightly as Harry had squeezed the Prophecy.

Some theorists suggest that Squibs suffer from overprotective magical cores in infancy or in utero. It is strange to consider that the least magical among us were perhaps those with the most magical potential. It makes sense when you consider the theory that when the body of a wizard is distressed, the core reacts to defend its master. In cases of certain extreme magical illnesses, patients have reported feeling a warm fluid-like sensation flowing in their bodies, followed by fever, disorientation, and hypersensitivity. If the magical core cannot return the wizard's body to equilibrium, it will tire itself into exhaustion or depletion, forever inhibiting or eliminating a person's use of magic, and in most cases, causing the wizard's death.

Her body—more specifically, her magical core—was fighting the curse and its adverse effects. Whatever it had been, the spell was being contained by the magic that she had found and loved, that had emerged unexpectedly and now unarguably defined her.

Her magic was expelling rapidly towards the cold slash of flesh where the curse had crossed her chest—leaving its secure stores to act in her defense. Although she knew it to be vain, she tried to will it to return. But it was not under her control. If she were a little older, a little more familiar with it, she could have possibly achieved the task. But once again, she fell short.

From the weakness she felt at the edges of her consciousness, Hermione was not naïve enough to think that her magic was winning its war with the curse. Although she had been dubbed the Smartest Witch of her age, she was not stupid enough to associate intelligence with power. Perhaps if she had Harry's talent she could hope that her core alone would be able to combat the spell, but she was not Harry Potter. She was just Hermione.

"Are you a witch or aren't you?"

Brown eyes snapped open. Her world spun wildly as she did so, and she swayed. When the world was right once more, she looked to Ron, whom she had sworn had spoken lucidly. He was still rocking on the floor, muttering. He wasn't even facing her direction anymore.

She lifted the foreign wand and stared at the wood through hazy, wavering vision. It was dull in color, dull like straw. Her own was pale and slightly green. She tried to imagine the wand as her own…tried to will it to be hers.

…or aren't you?

Colors blurred and sounds were dulled. The battles were waging around her. Someone was approaching—friend, or foe, she was not sure.

With the Severing Charm, cutting or tearing objects is a simple matter of wand control. The spell can be quite precise in skilled hands, and the Severing Charm is widely used in a variety of wizarding trades. Useful as it is, this charm should be practiced with caution, as a careless swipe of the wand can cause injury.

Variations of the Severing Charm include the Dissection Charm, which commands an even larger amount of control to the user. While it requires a greater need for skill, focus, and magic, the Dissection Charm is a one of many necessary spells to be learned in professions dealing with the healing arts or in the conventional preparation of several Potions ingredients.

She had no choice.

Are you a witch…

She took the wand in both hands and turned it onto herself. A blunt tip of wood was pressed into her shoulder when she spoke the word. There was a moment wasted on willing the strange combination of willow and unicorn hair to respond to her, before she spoke with great conviction.

…or aren't you?

"Diffindo Certo!"

Her voice did not waiver, even though she felt the tip of the wand make a sharp, shallow cut beneath the jutting bone. The smell of copper mixed with the heavy scent of sweat as she pressed the wand, and the spell, deeper and down, dragging it along the approximate slash of the curse.

Her vision flickered, slightly, as she had called upon her magic in its most vulnerable moments to cast the necessary Dissection Charm. It took great effort to keep her hands wrapped tightly around the handle of the wand—the sharpness of it was cutting her soft palm—and her eyes open at the same time. As the magic began to spill from her, through her pores and now the cut, the numb feeling was erased.

She must have screamed, because someone was heading for her. She ignored their shouts—"Hermione! Hermione—Stop!"

Blood dripped down her shirt, over her palm. It would stain Ron's wand. She felt guilt then, and hesitated.

Don't stop. You can't stop.

Her magic did not know how to react to this new injury. It was enough, however, to halt its assault on the curse. Her breath heaved as she gathered the courage to pull the wand along, over her ribs, and down to curl over her hip.

Hermione would never have described pain as sweet, but the pain she felt came with a warped sense of relief. What little magic she had saved was slipping back into her center, pulsing away from the shallow cut back into the safe haven within her ribs. This wound was painful—gods, did it sting. Her blood was dripping wildly, now, down her shirt and jeans, to the floor beneath her. The gaping flesh shivered at the sensation of meeting cold air, its outer protection having been meticulously sliced apart.

She preferred it to the numbness. At least now, she felt alive.

She dropped the wand and fell forward onto her palms, and laughed. It was strangled, but it was a laugh nonetheless.

Her stomach felt achingly empty, depleted of a weight she had never noticed, but was always there. Her head was light, filled with a euphoria that stemmed both from her pain and her lack of strength.

At last exhausted, she curled over the ground. Someone was grabbing her shoulders, and she could not push them away. They smelt musky—like sweat and fear, like a dog that had been running through a forest. A familiar voice called her name again, but she barely acknowledged it. Gentle hands lifted her chin, shaking her face as if to keep her awake…

The last thought she had was whether the others were feeling as tired as she was.

Severus felt the air tighten just before the fireplace flared.

Nymphadora Tonks stepped out of the flames. There was a harrowed look in her eyes, which were currently a deep shade of gray. They were the eyes shared by his godson, Draco, and Tonks' mother Andromeda.

"We need—", her breath was shallow and she gulped for air. She made a sweep of the room with her gray eyes only after Madam Pomfrey was already beside her, offering a Calming Drought.

"What are the injuries?" Madame Pomfrey asked. Her voice was strong and unwavering.

The young auror was sporting a cut over her eyebrow and a bruise along her cheek, and the nurse made to clean her face with a sweep of her wand. The soot cleared, leaving her skin paler than a moon ray. After gulping the potion down, she was able to speak more clearly. Something, however, lingered at the edges of her voice—grief.

Severus glared away when she began to speak again. The emotion in her voice told him that something had happened, "Two deaths…A Death Eater and…"

You've failed. You've failed. The boy is dead.

Severus' fingernails scraped the stone of the window as his fists clenched. He could see the visions in his mind's eye: dead Order members, dead children. Dead Potter.

His own grief returned, reminding him of another death, the death of a woman with the same shining, emerald eyes. The pain was worse than the aching, burning in his arm, and was followed by a familiar, dense ball of sadness clouding his throat. No one could know. No one would see. But he felt it sharply and all at once.

"…an Order member."

And then it was gone. His mask was in place when he turned away from surveying the grounds to listen closely to Tonks' choppy report. Relief sagged his shoulders. The Boy-Who-Lived-Once-Again. He was the last person anyone would expect to feel relieved at the notion. It was both nauseating and uplifting.

"A broken ankle. A broken nose. Two have been stunned. Two cases of Cruciatus. Longbottom and Potter both."

Pomfrey made a strangled sound. Severus felt fury—cold and dark. His fist tightened its grip on the sill of the window once more. He was leaning towards the glass, his long body rounded in a gloomy, brooding stance. His sharp beak of a nose was nearly touching the pane and his eyes were black and faraway.

"Two more complicated cases."

"What kind of complicated?"

Tonks didn't break down, though Severus wondered if she would had she not already swallowed the Calming Draught. Her breathing was evening out and she was no longer fretting. Her skin was still pale and her eyes were searching the nurse's desperately when he glanced at her once more, "Ron Weasley will need close mental evaluation. He's been hit with a rather complicated Confundus, maybe—a variation of that or something similar. I'm not sure. That place is full of…" she trailed off and shivered.

"And the other?" Pomfrey led Tonks to the bed, but the auror would not sit. She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and straightened her shoulders.

"Hermione Granger is…" Tonks' demeanor shifted to despair once more. Her gray eyes were glazing over, and her lips were quivering, "She's…she's…"

The Floo erupted once more, drowning her words. The werewolf practically ran out of it. In his arms was a small, curled body topped with matted hair.

Snape felt his gut tighten—her small hands were dangling towards the ground, swaying limp and lifeless. They looked as if they had been dipped in blood. Droplets of it fell to the ground in tiny splatters, trailing behind the steps of the werewolf. His eyes did not leave her milky, scarlet-tipped fingers as Lupin straightened and adjusted the dead weight in his arms before continuing. A fuzzy head lolled over his shoulder, dangling towards the ground. Her hair was drenched—not in blood, thankfully, but sweat.

Through the haze of the girl's matted, wild hair, Lupin's face could be seen. It was blotchy—red with either tears or exhaustion, or a combination of them. Beads of moisture were still glistening at his graying hairline and he had a welt over his chin.

"She's losing blood," Remus began to explain to Pomfrey. He headed for the nearest bed and gently laid the limp form of the fifth year Gryffindor over it. His feet shuffled clumsily as he stepped back, allowing the mediwitch to take her rightful place at the side of the girl. Severus noted the blood that was left on his clothes—staining the dull brown of his robes and the white of his shirt.

Hermione was unresponsive as Pomfrey spoke to her. She spoke to Lupin instead as she readied her work.

"What happened?"

Lupin struggled to find an explanation, "She…she's been magically exhausted. When we arrived, she was already incapacitated. She—she…." His eyes, pale blue, began to water again. The emotion was enough for Severus to begin to sneer again. Hold yourself together, wolf.

The nurse's wand hovered parallel to the girl as she began to diagnose the nature of the injury that had rendered her unconscious.

"She cut herself!" Tonks erupted with a wail, "Sliced herself down the middle."

Severus and Pomfrey glanced towards the auror with equal expressions of disbelief.

"What?" Severus hissed towards Tonks.

Pomfrey did not stop working. She had summoned Blood-Replenishing Potions and immediately proceeded to slip them into the girl's mouth. The girl was a sight to see—her skin was so slick with sweat she glittered in the light of the candles. It was not that which worried him, but the dark color that was pooling around her collarbone.

"Severus," Pomfrey spoke without hesitation. Her wand was responsive, but from this angle he could not see the diagnostic clearly.

He was there in four sweeping steps, robes billowing behind him. Tonks had not sat as she had been instructed to by the nurse several times. Lupin hovered helplessly at the end of the girl's bed, trying to find the words to explain the situation more clearly. Severus could feel his gaze upon him for a moment as he approached and he knew the wolf was wondering: Is it so bad that we need the help of his kind?

It was. The tip of Pomfrey's wand, pointed at the chest of the girl, was mostly black, with a surrounding edge of burning violet.

Snape felt his mask slip into place as he realized what this meant for the girl. On the outside, he was emotionless and calm. Within, he wanted to vomit. He could smell it on her—the sickeningly sweet scent of damp iron that was Dark Magic. It was a smell he had once associated with great power. Now, he associated it with death and despair, and the blood-soaked hands of Hermione Granger.

"The Dark Arts," he voiced aloud.

Pomfrey had summoned a variety of potions and left them levitating as she tore open the girls' shirt from where it had been cut, revealing a chest and plain, white bra stained red. Severus focused on the potions that swirled around Pomfrey as she washed most of the blood away, returning Miss Granger's skin to a pale ivory. The cut was clearer now, and nearly coincided with the slashing, purple mark that traveled from the ball of her shoulder over the valley of her breastbone.

The purple line was a shadow produced by the diagnostic magic, a figment created to allow him a deeper understanding of her infliction. Like most curses of its ilk, the affliction's intent was not to physically scar, but to cause pain. The spell had been cast and was used to trigger a reaction; probably quickly, and with much agony. It was similar to Cruciatus, in a way...

"Severus, I need to close the cut."

"Wait." It came out as a hiss. He grabbed the nurse's arm at the wrist to emphasize his demand. She strained against his touch, alerting him to his roughness. He met her eyes with a piercing gaze and did not release her, "Not yet."

"Now is not the time to play with potions, Professor Snape!" Her voice was taut. She was afraid of him.

Severus felt the twitch of irritation, but managed to restrain it. Traces of it were left in the poisonous tone of his voice, "Don't be an idiot, Madam. Lupin claims she cut herself—why?"

Pomfrey struggled to produce an answer. Severus smugly released her hand and watched as she dropped her wand towards the girl, but did not say the spell to seal her skin back together. He said nothing as she mulled the thoughts running through her mind over once, and then twice. When her gray-green eyes met his, they were squinted in irritation.

He didn't say anything, just stared at her smugly.

"Well?" Lupin interrupted impatiently.

Severus plucked the smallest vial without instruction from Pomfrey and promptly slipped it to the wet lips of the girl. For good measure, he gave her one of the potions he had reserved for his own encounters with Cruciatus—if anything, it would help her with her pain, should there be any.

His fingers felt the softness of her skin as he messaged her throat, forcing her to drink the milky blue potion. She gurgled and it erupted from her mouth slightly. Violet blended with blue dribbled down her chin as she convulsed suddenly. It was the only movement she had shown since arriving, but it was enough to make him relax, if only slightly.

She was still afterward, but her chest had begun to rise and fall more noticeably.

"What was the nature of the curse?" Pomfrey began to ask, her wandtip tracing the purple trail revealed by her spell, setting to heal any damage done within the girl's body. Hermione's skin, however, resisted—Pomfrey's wrist jerked violently, forcing her magic away. The purple line vanished into a wisp of smoke that rose and dispersed.

Severus had procured his own wand and began to set to work conjuring a need and thick thread. There was no time to waste. If he was to spare her life—her magic—he would need to be precise.

As he waved his dark wand, his fingers traced the skin of Miss Granger's forehead. The initial despair Severus had felt hours before, when he had imagined the crumpled bodies of his students, was settling in his throat. He kept the fingers of his free hand on Miss Granger's elbow, a comfortable place that wasn't fleshy and vulnerable, while the back of his palm rested against the flat plane of her brow. She was hot to the touch, as he had suspected.

His fingers remained on her skin as he called forth the pool of magic, settled low in his chest, to call to her own. There was a flicker, of course, in her belly that responded to his own song. It was no more of a flurry of whistles compared to trumpets, but it was there. Not all is lost…

She had known what was happening. Of all the students for this to have happened, she was the most capable of escaping certain death—or worse, magical impotence.

"It doesn't matter what the curse's intent was," he replied, almost giddily, in a Severus Snape sort of way.

He removed his hands from her skin to roll up his sleeves, then lifted his wand to magically thread the medical needle he had Transfigured, along with a companion tool. Remus and Tonks stared at the strange contraptions, thinking Snape was going to mend the girl's shirt. Pomfrey recognized it for what it was and stared at it with open contempt.

"Doesn't matter?" The nurse protested, "It caused her to do this—what more will it…"

"Miss Granger has finally earned the nauseating commendation of my colleagues," the Potions Master explained with a smirk, "The smartest witch of her age, indeed."

"Severus, quit darting around the subject. If you are going to do anything with my patient—"

He ignored the witch's shriek of protest as he grabbed the needle and used it to pierce the girl's skin.

His dark eyes were trained on her face, unblinking, as he began to sew the flesh closed. Her skin was now sickeningly pale, making the light dusting of once unnoticed freckles over her dainty nose blatant. The darkness of her brow, darker from the moisture, contrasted both with her pallor and her surprisingly delicate bone structure. She had a stubborn chin, as well, and a mouth that many would consider thin, which tightened further in discomfort. She gave a soft moan of despair, then relaxed as Pomfrey slipped a potion to her lips.

Pomfrey was slightly hypnotized by Severus hands, which worked as elegantly and steadily as they did when he was brewing. It was a rare sight, to watch a Potions' Master brew; the children took their instructor's talents for granted. And now, here he was, effortlessly performing a manual Muggle task with the same fluidity and grace he commanded at a cauldron.

The mediwitch stared at Severus for a moment—absorbing the vision of him hovering at the side of the girl, his sharp mouth frowning slightly as he concentrated. He had always been prone to darker expressions, even when he was most relaxed. He was unnaturally tall and thus was forced to hunch over her, sending a curtain of black hair over half his face. Black eyes shone like beetles from his sunken eyes, unblinking as they surveyed his student's injury, wielding the tongs and stitching her skin back together.

He touched her only lightly when he had to—tips of his fingers over the bone of her collar. There was gentleness there, gentleness one would not attribute to a man such as he was. Pomfrey noted the care he took to make sure her modesty was upheld; casting a wordless, wandless spell to keep the tattered fabric of her shirt from slipping, or the fabric of her pants from slipping too far down her hips.

She had known he was a dark man, and the aura around him was evidence as such. But the intent, the will to save the girl with grace and humility, his careful touch and gaze, was enough to wash away any doubt she had ever had that he was not a good man, beneath all the harsh exterior.

The Floo flared, and Pomfrey made the executive decision to leave the girl's health in the capable hands of the Potions Master. He could do more for her than she could ever hope to.

Weasley was able to walk, at least. He bumbled through, escorted by Mad-Eye Moody, all gangly arms and dreamy eyes and jumbled words. The auror pulled him roughly to a bed, and secured him to it with a huff. She treated his abrasions first and tried not to lose her temper at his strange antics, and tried to direct the elder, paranoid auror away from interrupting Severus' work with his biting comments and suspicion.

The charm Weasley was under would thankfully fade with time, but they could not risk him falling asleep while under it. She cast a Wakefulness spell and gave him Pepper-Up, then made certain he could not harm himself lest the spell take a nasty turn. In order to allow Severus some peace to do his own healing, she cast a silencing spell and closed the curtain that surrounded Hermione Granger. Weasley's sudden shouts or rantings and the rising discussions of the present Order members were unheard.

Both Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood were unconscious, though Miss Weasley was in slightly better shape. Although she had a broken ankle, the Lovegood girl had suffered not a single stunner, but several. The two were in the best shape out of them all, regardless, and were assisted in a handful of minutes by the medi-witch. They were relatively stable, and left to rest indefinitely while the others were treated.

Longbottom, on the other hand, was suffering tremors in the bed beside Hermione Granger. Tonks and Lupin had supported him after he stumbled through the Floo at the side of Mundungus Fletcher, who promptly and conveniently disappeared. The boy was speaking lucidly, but Pomfrey knew from experience that he was suffering both mental trauma and physical discomfort.

"How is 'M-m-mione?" His teeth were chattering and his body was drenched in sweat. Lupin had pulled Tonks away from him and was forcing her to sit on a bed, allowing Pomfrey the space to assess the damage.

"I said sit back, Mr. Lonbottom!" Pomfrey insisted.

"She's okay, r-r-r-right?" Neville muttered, ignoring the nurse. He was pushing himself up, trying to lean towards the curtain, as if heading closer would allow him to see through it more clearly.

Neville frowned darkly when the nurse forced him back again, glaring away from her to stare at the curtain broodingly.

"I expected this kind of childish behavior from some of your housemates, Mr. Longbottom, not from you." The nurse placed her wand against his wrist and watched her watch. She then turned his chin to face her, evaluating the cuts that had marred his cheek. He had scratched his face, she realized sadly.

"I'm f-f-fine," Neville insisted, although his body was evidently protesting his words. His hand had come upwards to hide the scratches, stubby fingers curling over the once-pudgy cheeks.

She waved a wand in front of his eyes, checking his pupils and cognitive function. His brain was fully intact. Her heart felt heavy as she realized that he was luckier than his parents in that aspect.

They were nearly as young as he was, she remembered. A handful of years more, and he would be the same age as they were when they suffered at the hand of Bellatrix Lestrange.

"How many times?" she inquired as she rubbed salve into his cheek.

Neville was quiet then, distracted from his worry of his house mate. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. The long jaw she had recognized as his father's grew very tight.

"Three," he answered when she did not relent.

"Consecutively?" Pomfrey inquired.

"M-m-mostly," he answered, "I'm f-fine. I should have—"

"No, Mr. Longbottom, you are not fine," Pomfrey snapped, "You are going to sit back and relax, lest you want to risk further injury to your person. You are no help to Miss Granger right now, and will be no help in the future unless you allow your body to heal. The Cruciatus Curse can-" she felt her heart clench as she halted her words.

"I know the effects of the Cruciatus," he said sharply. His eyes widened when he realized his tone, and he sunk backwards in defeat. She did not chastise him, but silently continued to bandage his cheek. There were muscles pulled in his arms and his back was strained from twisting, his wrist, too.

The boy was silenced from then on, lost in thought. His eyes drifted towards the screen as Pomfrey checked him for abrasions and cuts to treat, staring at it as if it were the stars above and he was seeking answers for his crimes.

Pomfrey was preparing the potions' regiments when she heard Severus calling for her. She entered the bed confined by the shielding curtain. The dark-haired man was standing, now, a tall thin length of robes.

"Will you tell me what happened?" Pomfrey asked.

He didn't smirk at her, or scowl smugly at all. There were ghosts in his eyes for the barest of moments when they met hers—shadows of memories or feelings. They were once more fathomless pools of black with a blink of her own.

"Miss Granger was hit with a curse—its intent was pain and, perhaps, death for an ambitious caster. It is Dark in nature, but also…less deliberate. Whatever it was, it lacked the conviction to serve its purpose, and would have served as a minor irritant for several weeks, with the proper treatments. The question posed, then, was how did Granger come to cut herself, if the curse was not psychologically manipulative in nature?"

Pomfrey did not have an answer, only symptoms. Sweat. Warm skin. Exhaustion.

When the answer came, she was dumbfounded.

"How…"

Severus Snape glanced at Hermione with the same expression of wonder that she felt. The girl had not only recognized what was happening to her, but had acted to stop it. It was not often that the Potions Master was impressed by a student—but she saw the pride in the slackness of his jaw as he gazed upon her still bloodied, but stable body.

"Her magic, when it is replenished, will repel the Muggle treatment. I've laid out instructions for her potions. The road ahead is uncertain," Snape said, the shadows returning to his face and gaze.

Pomfrey would agree. It could take weeks…months, even, for the girl to recover from coming that close to losing her magic. She would need an intense therapy regimen.

"I must report to the Headmaster."

And with that he was gone. Pomfrey took a deep breath, and set back to work, although her brain did not stop wondering about the true intent of Severus Snape.