Four

Late July, 1998

The late morning heat was stifling. No breeze flowed through the open windows of the Hospital Wing. Hermione sat in a soft chair, book open on her lap reading as Snape approached, the tap, tap, tap of his cane giving notice of his advent.

How he hated that cane. But Poppy had insisted that the nerve damage was too great for him to walk unassisted, and the one time he had tried, he had fallen and pulled the curtains of his cubicle down around him. Poppy had made no comment, but he could not shake the feeling of utter humiliation, as he had lain on the stone floor in his grey y-fronts and nothing else, dressing gown inches from his hand.

He frowned and shook his head, as if to rid himself of the thought. It had not been long after that when Poppy had allowed him proper clothing: denims, shirts, even lighter weight trousers.

The girl did not raise her head from her book as he approached, her finger twisting around a clump of brown hair as she read, curled like her half-Kneazle in a puddle of sunlight.

He cleared his throat quietly.

"Miss Granger," he said.

"Good morning, Professor," she replied, closing the book and laying it aside. He noticed with approval the title on the spine: Types of Memory Damage by Bancroft and Hicks – leading authorities in the field (Lockhart notwithstanding).

"Miss Granger," he said again, "Poppy suggested that we discuss your... condition. Can you tell me exactly what happened the night that you... Can you describe the incident in detail?"

"It's a bit fuzzy, Professor," Hermione said. "I was helping Ginny, and then it felt like, well, like somebody hit me in the back of the neck. Here."

She lifted her wealth of curly brown hair to expose her pale neck. Severus bent down and saw at the base of her hairline an angry red scar in the shape of a spiral.

Snape sucked in a startled breath and caught the clean scent of her shampoo – citrus.

"Thank you, Miss Granger," he ground out, and Hermione dropped her hair, sending out another subtle (and unwelcome) wave of scent. His knuckles whitened as he gripped his cane.

"Have you seen anything like it before?" she asked.

"The overall markings of the scar are similar to many other hex markings," Snape began to lecture, "but the specific gradations in the scarring itself are unlike anything I've seen before."

"Oh." Hermione's face fell as she stood. "Did you – I've been researching," she said, "and I found some books that describe what's happening, but all of them relate to what happens when people are overexposed to memories in a Pensieve."

"Miss Granger, explain, please."

"Well, what happens is, when the curse takes effect, I – the room starts to swim a bit, and then I blink to try and clear my head. But when I open my eyes, I'm not here anymore."

"Where are you?"

"I'm..." Hermione wrinkled her brow and gnawed her lip. "I'm in London, I think. And my parents are there, and a doctor. I'm in..." Where was it?

"Yes?" Snape folded his arms across his chest.

"I don't remember," Hermione confessed. "The books I read say that sometimes one can achieve a trance-like state if they've seen or absorbed too many memories, if they're not good at Occulmency, but I haven't been... Nobody's ever performed Legilimency on me, and I've never even looked into a Pensieve..." She trailed off.

"Awake may be an exaggeration, Miss Granger," Snape observed. "Your eyes are open, but that barely qualifies as awake. The youngest Weasley boy is more awake in my Potions lecture on 'Types of Healing Fungus and Their Application to Practical Potioning' with his eyes closed than you are with your eyes open during these episodes."

Hermione's face twisted into a wry grin. "Poor Ronald never had the patience for Potions," she observed. "But Professor, I never... What happens here is that I close my eyes, there are the impressions I told you about – the hospital and my parents and the doctor, and the next thing I know, it's hours later! And when I'm there..." She paused, brow furrowed.

"What is it, Miss Granger?"

"Well," she explained, "when I'm here, it feels like I'm in a dream. Like, right now, my head feels sandy and heavy. But when I'm there, it feels real. Like I belong there."

"Poppy said this is happening regularly?"

"Yes. It happened this morning and lasted... I'm not sure how long. Atalanta wasn't there this time, but my father was and..." Hermione paused, eyes wide.

"Miss Granger?"

"Y-yes?"

"Who is Atalanta?"

Hermione frowned.

"I... I have no idea," she said and sat down rather suddenly.

Snape froze. There was no reason that she should remember her.

"Perhaps, then," Snape said slowly. "That is where we begin."

"With Atalanta?"

"With Atalanta."

"How do we start?" Hermione asked.

"Miss Granger, do you have any objection to Legilimency?"

Hermione smiled. "Do you want to see my worst memory?"

Snape scowled at her. "Flippancy will not assist you, Miss Granger."

"Right, sorry, Professor, it's just... I'm worried. I don't like being in this state of... well, it's more like a dream."

Snape relented, just a little – Gryffindor bravado was one thing, but she was still a child who had been forced into a situation not of her choosing.

"They're just children, Albus."

"Then let us let them enjoy their childhood."

His throat tightened, sending a spasm of pain through his jaw and down the back of his neck. He would be hurting this afternoon.

"It is a... worrying situation, Miss Granger," he replied. "But one that, hopefully, we can resolve."

She smiled. "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"May I ask, sir... why are you doing this?"

Snape paused. What did she know of his life, his existence, his motivations? What would she understand? What did she need to know? He settled on a suitably vague answer, no point in becoming her charity case as well. Poppy's worry was bad enough – Potter's completely unbearable.

Worse, he knew he ran the risk of her finding out just how much he was indebted to her, how much Albus had done to her.

"It seems, Miss Granger," he said, "that I at least owe you my time. And, seeing that I have no other pressing projects, you seem to be a suitable candidate for my energies."

Hermione frowned.

"Now are you going to sit up and let me perform Legilimency on you, or do we need to find another method?" he growled.

It was night when she opened her eyes again. A pale glow emanated from a lamp by her bed, but the room, the whole building seemed in a state of suspended animation.

Midvale again. It was odd, the relief that flooded through her, the feeling of being safe.

Hermione swung her legs off of the bed and gripped the edge, clenching her teeth to still the waves of dizziness and nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.

Come on, Granger, you can do this. You lived in a tent for all that time, for Merlin's sake.

She paused.

No, no, that was all a dream; remember what Dr Gupta said yesterday. That the new anti-psychotics were helping you not to have those dreams anymore.

Carefully, Hermione stood. Her legs seemed to be in working order; that was a good sign. She took one step, then a second.

Quietly, carefully, she began to explore the small room. Not that there was much to explore – a bed, a nightstand, two chairs and a second door she hadn't noticed before.

Loo.

The overwhelming need to empty her bladder overtook her, and she hurried to the door.

Relieved, she washed her hands and looked into the small mirror above the sink.

A pale girl with big brown eyes, prominent front teeth, and short, bushy, curly hair stared back at her.

"Hermione," she said to the girl in the mirror. The girl in the mirror mimicked her. Hermione was struck by how scratchy her voice sounded. Obviously this mirror was not charmed to answer her back.

No, no, no – mirrors don't answer you back, not here.

Reassured that she wouldn't be babbled at, Hermione traced the lines of her face. Who had cut her hair so short? Yes, it was unmanageable when it was long, but this looked like an ugly, unruly mop.

And she was so thin. Months of being on the run would do that, she supposed.

No, no – you've been here the whole time. How did they feed me, anyway?

Hermione sighed – Dr Gupta was right – this was going to take time. Perhaps she could help him, find out more about her condition. Maybe there was a library she could explore. Maybe she could even go home and research there!

The thought of going home to her mum and dad and sister made the tears well up.

Home.

Home was where her family was – safe and sound and Muggle. At home, she would never hear of magic or wizards or potions. Home was where the dangers were annoyances from things like cars with their stereos turned up too loud, teenagers who kicked rubbish bins on collection days and put soap in the park fountains, and neighbors who smoked in their back gardens.

Home was safe.

Hermione smiled, and the girl in the mirror, who was also Hermione, smiled back.

Maybe she could even convince her parents to fix her teeth.

Hermione crept back to her bed and found a pad on the nightstand with her mother's scribbled writing. Thankfully, a pencil was beside it.

Taking a few moments to reacquaint herself with the Muggle technology – no, you've just not used it in a while, she reminded herself – Hermione tore off a fresh page and began to write a list:

1. What are the anti-psychotics am I on?

She frowned; her spelling had always been excellent, but the writing was a chore. Perhaps she needed more practice. It had been – what had her mum said? Seven years? She continued:

2. When can I go home?

7. What will Ron think? Will I see him? Do I even want to see him again?

Hermione stopped stared at the last question. Why would she care what her imaginary boyfriend – well, they weren't really boyfriend and girlfriend, were they? Why would she care what a figment of her imagination, according to Dr Gupta, felt?

"They were imaginary," he had said. "Part of what we think has been happening to you. Part of your..." he had paused, "fantasy world."

Hermione scowled at the page and pressed down on the paper so hard that the tip of the pencil snapped.

If they were imaginary, then why had they felt so real before Dolohov?

Snape frowned and tried to concentrate. The girl had slipped from him into her state of coma almost immediately upon his casting of the Legilimency spell.

It was too late for him to reverse himself without causing serious damage to her psyche, and he was now working his way carefully out of her mind.

If it could be called a mind.

Where there should have been memories and thoughts and feelings and ideas, there was nothing.

Snape had never given much thought to the characteristics and qualities of nothing before. Even the blackness of space, he knew, contained stars and gas and planets and asteroids. Even the veil, the shadow of death, had another side.

But this was simply the absence of, well, anything.

Carefully, carefully, Snape pulled his mind from hers and frowned at the catatonic girl before him.

"Hermione," he said, surprising himself at the casualness of his address. "What happened to you?"

Hermione did not reply. Outside the open window, a meadowlark sang his joyous song in the sun.

AN: I still have not made a cent from this. Special thanks to Subversa and SavineSnape for all their help!