Chapter Three

The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic, and WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

Sitting across from him in his office, she finds herself both puzzled and intrigued while outwardly she remains calm and unfazed. She is becoming accustomed to navigating through life with only partial understanding of the events happening around her, even if she does not realise this fact, even if each day she exists with an unsettling amount of fear surrounding her. That he has requested her presence and is, at this very moment, looking back at her with an expression that is most definitely not a sneer or scowl is highly confusing. She suspects that she is missing something, some forgotten event that would explain how she warrants such attention from him, but no matter how thoroughly she scans her mind, she can find nothing in those places where the memories should reside.

There is nothing there for her to fall back on, no explanation, no solid ground. Instead, she only finds what she believes to be her last memory. The familiar flashes of Snape as he moves through battle, a haze of smoke and fog surrounding him. She does not know how he came to be close enough to her, but suddenly he is beside her, shoving her aside as flashes of fear and light explode around them. She remembers the sensation of her fingers wrapping around smooth stones as her hands dig into the soft soil, the sudden pang of sorrow that floods her as a cold feeling of metallic energy envelopes her. There is also the intense feeling of regret as she falls to the hex and the world darkens. It is in this moment that she knows she has failed to perform in this, the most important test of her life. It is always there in her mind, these flashes of insight, disorganised and incongruent. These final remembrances where she failed to protect him as he protected her. Whether he knew it was her he was protecting, she cannot recall. Though she guesses he did not. After all, it wasn't likely that he would have distinguished her from any other student fighting alongside him.

She was and is no one to him, just a student, a bother, a thorn in his side. A fact which stings even as her tortured mind plays his fall for her once again, this time leaving the all-too-familiar guilt to well up within her. He deserved so much better. Even now, after the war, he has not been given his full due, and that fact rankles her. Yes, she is broken. Yes, she has forgotten so much, but this is one thing that stays with her from day-to-day. The sheer injustice that he is a forgotten man. Unliked. Unloved.

But then, she reminds herself, he is not entirely unloved. How could he be with her reliving this moment with each and every breath, those all-too-important last moments before things go blank, before the oblivion. She is drawn to him, though she can't understand why. It is an inexplicable truth that she simply accepts as part of the reality that is the aftermath of who she is. She wants with every part of her being to make things right for him, to be his true friend, to give him the recognition he has so assuredly earned, and to perhaps find a way to show him that, even for him, there is happiness to be found.

Hermione startles as her mind comes back to the present, and she realises that she has once again allowed her mind to wander and fall off the edge, into the chaos that is her inner thought process. Professor Snape neither desires her friendship nor her championing of him, and he especially could never want her love. How could he? She is just Hermione Granger, the broken and confused.

As her eyes focus again, she sees Professor Snape sitting behind his desk silently watching with unexpected patience. She feels the inevitable confusion start to mount once again; the familiar weight of frustration seeps forward. Confusion and frustration, these, she suspects, are a constant presence in her life now.

The professor nods and draws his hands together, steepling them on the desktop. He is waiting for something, but what, she doesn't know. Is she supposed to speak, she wonders. Unsure of where to look, her eyes fix on the gleam of black that is at his wrist. As she fidgets in her seat and wonders at the idea of Professor Snape wearing a piece of jewelry, her mouth opens to speak. However, she is disappointed when all she can manage is a lame and mumbled, "You wanted to see me, sir."

His eyes are hard as they look at her. This task set before him will bring him no joy. Neither does he find any amusement in the fact that she is wearing the nervous and confused expression that is so often upon her face. There are times when he can, to a small degree, enjoy her discomfiture. It brings out in her something that softens and warms his heart. But in this matter today, her discomfiture is not desired. He has no desire to scare her. He will do what he is called to. In the case of Hermione, there is no one else who will do it. As always, the dirty work is left to him, and if she hates him for it, then so be it.

That is his purpose in calling her here. A purpose that has kept him awake many a night and has led him to question nearly every member of staff, as well as many Order members. This purpose, this quest to find the answers and cure her, to see her back to her whole state, has been all-consuming. He realises that a good portion of his motivation to cure her is selfish; he would not be a true Slytherin if he could not see the advantage to him in her being cured, but it is more than that. More than his burning desire to know why she chose him to wear her lodestones. It is more than the despair that has filled him since he went from expert to expert in search of answers on what had been done, what could be done to clear her mind and return her memory, only to be stonewalled. More than the searing anger he felt when he found that the search for a cure had been put aside in favour of other more profitable tasks ... profitable to the Ministry, not to her. No. It appeared to him that she had been all but abandoned, and for all his searching, the only possible solution he had found he feared would leave her completely bare and so profoundly shaken that she would never be able to face him again.

He had looked for weeks for a another way, only to find nothing.

Nothing.

Before he speaks, a sigh escapes him, and Hermione suddenly realises that he is as hesitant as she to start this conversation, whatever the subject might be. Then, as she hears him begin, his words falling across her ears in a tone so soft and gentle that his voice is only distantly reminiscent of the acidic one from so long ago, all thought escapes her, and she is transfixed.

"Miss Granger, you were hexed one hundred and seventy-two days ago. During this time, you have spent nineteen days unconscious, five weeks under the daily observation of the staff at St Mungo's, and then, when the staff deemed that nothing further could be done for you, it was decided that you would return to Hogwarts. They foolishly hoped that your short-term memory recall would return with time and familiar surroundings. All the while the search for the counter-hex was supposed to continue. There is some indication that research was done in the early months following your return to Hogwarts. However, with time and due to a combination of factors, it would seem that the research was called off or pushed aside long before the start of the school year. Furthermore, it has come to my attention that no one has taken the time to inform you of this fact, and though it is truly not my place to do so, and though you will not remember this tomorrow ... not to mention the fact that I do not know if it will make any difference in the long run ... I feel it is something you have the right to know."

She can feel the tears welling suddenly in her eyes as all hope drains away, leaving her with an emptiness so great her breath sticks in her chest. She has been forgotten, abandoned. The betrayal burns deeps and then bursts from her in a single jarring sob. Anything would be preferable to this. They were supposed to protect her, to keep searching, to keep the experts on task. She knows the knowledge of it has always been there, percolating beneath the surface of her mind, the fact that she lacks information on the progress for a cure. Now, she knows why. It was as if somehow she knew, even though she couldn't remember, that to the world she was just another war victim, just another face among many. When it came down to it all, she couldn't even blame Harry. He was struggling enough on his own, and to be thrust with the responsibility of caring for her was simply too much to ask. But what of the others, Professor McGonagall, the Weasleys?

A sick feeling floods her as she struggles to understand and quantify her situation. With whom can she place the blame? Is there blame to even be had? Perhaps she truly is just another victim, and this is her lot in life.

Her face is full of surprised and open grief. She has hidden nothing from him, and he knows that in a way he has broken her. He has taken away the trust she has in those around her, and her ability to trust others is an integral part of who she is. But he cannot bear that she has been misused in such a way by those who should know better. It is better that she understand, even if it is only temporary.

"Sir... I don't... How could...?" she gasps out, her voice so utterly broken and hollow that it tears at his heart and leaves him with a foreign desire to pull her into his arms.

"They aren't going to find the cure, Hermione. They aren't even trying," he states quietly, not even realising that he has lapsed into a familiarity that they have never shared. "Perhaps they care, those closest to you, but I have not been able to find anything that indicates they have any intent of ever working toward repairing your mind or removing the hex. Have you any idea that you are a currently a ward of the Ministry, under the temporary jurisdiction of Hogwarts? Furthermore, if nothing is done for you, do you realise that you run the risk of remaining so for the rest of your life? This is despite the fact that you reached your majority more than two years ago. The Ministry does not care that you can function at a near-normal level, nor does it matter to them that you are remarkably intelligent. At best, in your current condition, you will be assigned to the care of another for the rest of your life, and at worst, you could be institutionalised. And because of my status..." His voice quavers for a moment, and he finds that he is unable to put into words for her the intricacies of his place within their broken society. It hurts him to know that, because of who he is, she could continue to suffer without a cure. "I have not been allowed the honour of seeing what research has been done. The fools at the Ministry and St Mungo's have seen fit to keep from me that knowledge, no matter how I request it or what favours I call in. Do you not see? I cannot further the research that has been done because I myself am a security risk." His final words escape him in a bitterly spat breath, and once again, Severus Snape feels the weight of of his inability to protect those he cares for. He was destined to be inadequate in every way, and it seems that no amount of effort will ever change that fact.

"You were trying to help me?" she asks between sobs, missing entirely the scorn and self-hatred that tinge his words.

"When I became aware..." Unsure whether he wants to delve into how he became aware of her condition and her subsequent affect on him, he falls silent. A part of him yearns to tell her. A wild hope that she feels as he does. But he knows better than to hope for such things. With his eyes locked on hers, he instead ploughs forward, on to his final point; altogether steering clear of the tale on how his interest in her began. "Miss Granger, I have read every book on memory charms and hexes that I can get my hands on, and though I have extensive knowledge of the Dark Arts, I have been able to find little to nothing in regards to a cure. No cure you would desire to be wrought upon your mind, to be sure."

She processes his words through a haze. Each one trickling through a mire of emotion so confusing in its vastness that it is some time before she registers that he has offered her a small bit of hope. He has offered her a lifeline, and she will grasp it for all it is worth if she can.

"Little to nothing?" she asks, her voice tentative as she wonder what possible treatment could be undesirable. "Sir, surely you realise that whatever you have found, however small or repulsive in nature, it has to better than the eternal nothingness that is my life now."

She didn't know how she knew it, but she could tell that there was something more to what he had said. Perhaps it was simply that he had been her teacher for too long and that she had studied his character with interest these past few years, but she was able to tell when he was holding something back from her. The fact that he isn't just any ordinary wizard...he is the one who inhabits every thought, every regret, every guilt, and every desire...flames to life within her in a wild surge of hope before she manages push it from her mind. After all, she knows him to be an honourable man, and though she lacks understanding of why he is doing this, it is not outside of her estimation of his character for him to help those in need. As far as she is concerned, he would do this for anyone. It doesn't even register in her mind that she is probably the only one alive who thinks he would do so.

Banking on what she knows of him, despite the fact that he has just shattered her faith in those she most relies on, she looks at him earnestly and pleads, "Please tell me."

She believes in his capacity for true good so deeply that she must harshly remind herself that, though he is doing it for her, it does not mean he is doing it for her. It is too easy to build castles, and that is something she cannot afford to do. Not when the next day they will be swept away under the waves of the incoming tide of hex-induced memory loss. This constant fear and understanding that she will, time and time again, be brought back to the beginning stops her from acknowledging the tenderness in his voice and keeps her from seeing the hesitancy and sadness in his demeanour.

Silence fills the room as they both wait for the moment to come, the one where he will tell her what might be done, and she will decide. But for a time, it is simpler to just sit with their eyes locked on the other, lost to their own thoughts, lost to the heat mindlessly building in their chests. If mutual interest is spurring to life, it's too early for them to acknowledge it. After all, that their breaths are both growing shallow does not matter. That there is clear affection and perhaps even a stir of magic between them is insignificant. Neither of them can afford to spare a thought for it now. To believe that, just maybe, their feelings are not unrequited is untouchable...is out of the question...when there so much is at stake.

Then he is speaking again. His black eyes hold her fixedly in place, and his words begin to filter through the muck that makes up her thought process. "If you are so willing, I should like to try to perform a deep Legilimency procedure on you. From what I have read...and the accounts of it are sketchy at best...deep Legilimency holds the best possibly of providing you some improvement. Save, of course, the complete removal of the hex, which I fear is unlikely ever to be achieved. It will not be a cure in any way. I suspect that, even should it prove to be a resounding success, you will always be cursed to forget many of the smaller details of your life. However, I do have some small hope that, through this procedure, your ability to imprint upon things will improve. If I can help you remember new people, places, and events, even to a small degree, then you should be able to petition for your release as a Ministry ward. After all, it is not a crime to be forgetful. You must simply demonstrate that you have the capability to recall the continuity within your life. I cannot be sure if I can succeed, and it is likely that the minutiae of daily life will always slip from you, but then, with care and time there are other ways to deal with those issues."

Her mouth falls open as she listens only to snap back shut as she considers his offer and the many questions that have burst to life within her. As she claws her way through the non-essentials, she latches on to the one important fact: he can offer her something. He is here, and he is willing to do something, however small. It is so much more than has been done before, and it warms her heart. Without a thought or care to the fact that in allowing him to rifle through her mind she will be opening to him the truth of her feelings or to the danger that is surely inherent in such a procedure, a large and toothy grin starts to spread across her face. Without missing another beat, the room is filled with a quiet but emphatic, "Yes!"