Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. They belong to JKR. I make no money from this piece of fiction. No copyright infringement is intended.

Hermione woke with a start, her heart banging against her chest. Her nightdress was soaked with a cold sweat, and the bedcovers she'd kicked off somewhere during the course of the night were tangled around her legs. Scared out of her wits, Hermione's eyes scanned the bedroom, searching for the night-time intruder. She saw nothing but phantoms conjured by an over-active imagination.

Still rattled by the nightmare, she rolled out of bed and pulled apart the curtains, desperate for the morning sunshine. Her skin was beginning to chill from the sweat, and she tore off the nightdress, throwing it into the dirty laundry basket with yesterday's underwear. Naked, she stood in the sun, letting it warm her sufficiently before she thought about dressing. The cold that went down to her bones was caused by far more than simple sweat.

This was the third time she'd had that dream, and Hermione was beginning to wonder if it meant something. Not that she believed in all that Divination mumbo-jumbo. It was a matter of logic and statistics: the dream must mean something if it occurred more than once. Though quite what, she wasn't sure. Perhaps it was a hint to lay off the cheese before bed?

She took a quick glance at the clock on her wall; it was seven fifty. She was running late.

Yanking open her wardrobe doors, Hermione pulled out the first clean blouse and skirt she could find and threw them on the bed. Slipping on a neutral bra and a pair of knickers from the 'clean' pile, she scrabbled around for a pair of tights, finally managing to find a pair that didn't have a hole or a ladder in. After rolling the navy tights up her legs, no time for shaving, she zipped up the matching navy skirt and buttoned her white blouse. She gathered her curls back into a simple pony-tail and dusted her cheeks with bronzer. She hadn't time for much else in the way of make-up, but it wasn't like anyone would notice. There was no-one at work to impress.

Running down the hallway, Hermione gathered up her briefcase and case-notes before skidding to a halt at the front door. Post, both Muggle and Magical, lay on her doormat, but she hadn't the time to read it. If it was important, no doubt someone would tell her.

Glancing at her watch, she slipped on her court shoes and robes, also navy blue, and went clacking back down the hallway and into the living room. Removing her wand from its holder in her briefcase, she pointed it towards the empty fireplace and watched as large, yellow flames rose out of the grate. They turned green as she threw in a handful of Floo-powder from the pot on the mantelpiece.

Closing her eyes, Hermione stepped into the grate, enunciating clearly: "Novum Laboratories".

Novum Laboratories was a Ministry-run organisation. To say what they did would be a little difficult, for they experimented in many fields. There were entire hallways devoted to Genetic Manipulation, Magical Computing, Artificial Protein Synthesis, Astrology, and Arithmantic Offender Fingerprinting. Smaller departments were housed in randomly allocated rooms across the facility. Lazarus, Hermione's department, was housed in one such room.

"Good Morning, Elsa," said Hermione, walking past reception. Elsa, her personal assistant, smiled before returning to the large stack of paper that awaited her attention. Their relationship, whilst not particularly close, was affable. Hermione kept herself to herself, and Elsa seemed to respect that decision, keeping the conversation restricted to work matters rather than personal. Hermione had no idea whether Elsa had a husband or a lover, or if she had children or pets. But she always said hello as though she knew her.

As though she really knew anyone.

Hermione walked through the double doors that led to the Isolation Room, her high heels slipping slightly on the highly polished floor, her briefcase held close to her chest as through it were the most precious thing in the world. She passed through the identity checks: the Ministry computers scanning her height, her weight, her retinas, her DNA. You couldn't be too careful these days. Not in a place like this.

Although the Isolation Room was located in the older part of the building, its interior was filled to the brim with shiny, new technology. The walls, tiled white like the floor, glimmered with anti-bacterial microgel, smeared there by the cleaners every morning. Screens, high definition, hung from the ceiling on retractable arms, the thick black wires trailing down to fully moveable cameras fixed to rotating ball-sockets. The floor was covered with weight-sensitive panels, scanning the molecular density of the room's occupants every six seconds. Silver tables and silver instruments made it look more like a Muggle Operating Theatre than anything else, which, for the purposes of the Ministry, was perfect.

Hermione placed her briefcase on one of the smaller side tables next to the sink. She washed her hands, enjoying the clean feeling as the violently purple suds flowed from her fingers. Next, she snapped on her gloves – like latex, only different in a way she didn't quite understand – and donned her lurid green gown. She walked over to the large silvery drawers that lined the west wall. She scanned the names on each of the drawers before coming to rest on drawer six. The drawer slid out easily on its rollers, and with a flick of her wand, Hermione transferred its cloth-covered contents onto the shiny Operating Table.

Today, Lazarus had a special assignment. It seemed the Ministry required a Potions master for another project. And, the Ministry being what it was, only the best would do. But the best was dead.

The Lazarus Department's job was to bring him back.

Hermione pulled back the white cloth, revealing a pale face with dark hair. Severus Snape. Dead six years, eight months and twelve days. Cause of death: exsanguination due to a tear in the carotid artery.

It was going to be tricky. The internal damage was great, and the longer the body was kept in suspension, the harder it was to bring them back. Blood, even under magical preservation, decayed into phosphorous and other unwanted compounds. And the DNA degeneration was no different: it would start to unwind and separate, meaning vital segments would be lost when the cells began to replicate again. Whilst not quite as woolly a science as Muggle Cryogenics, complications still arose with alarming frequency.

First, they would start with wound repair. A body had to be functional before life could be brought back. And Snape's wasn't.

Hermione, gloved up and sterilised, picked up a needle from the tool tray and threaded it with nylon fibre. The job didn't have to be neat, unlike Muggle stitching. It just had to hold long enough for the magic to penetrate the surrounding tissues and encourage re-growth. The fibre would disintegrate under the power of the magic.

She grasped the cold flesh of the wound, peeling back the shreds of skin until the muscle was exposed. Without the heart pumping blood around the body, the wound was relatively clear, and Hermione could see the hole in the carotid with startling clarity. Pinching the hole shut with her left hand, she began to stitch with her right, forcing the needle through the tunica adventitia and the tunica media to the lumen before looping back through in big, clumsy stitches.

Satisfied that it would hold, she placed the needle on the edge of the table and picked up her wand. Murmuring countless healing and growing charms under her breath, she nudged the stitched artery, watching carefully as the tissue began to knit back together again. Blue sparks issued from the end of her wand, dissolving the thread.

She repeated the process with the muscle and skin layers, making sure that the skin healed properly. The end result wasn't flawless; the skin would always be slightly different in texture, if not appearance. He would have a magical scar, but there was nothing she could do about that. Just like there was nothing she could do about the rest of the scars that littered his torso and upper thighs.

Next, Hermione connected up the monitors. She pressed fibre-gel receptors to his chest, spacing them evenly on either side of his sternum, and ran the wires back up to the old heart-rate monitor that had yet to be replaced. Black wires were placed at his temples, running up to a machine that monitored brainwaves. From the tip of each finger ran a green wire that led to a machine that monitored magical activity. She placed an oxygen mask over his mouth. Though they had a ventilation machine, it was hardly necessary for this procedure; they merely had to ensure an abundance of oxygen for the lungs upon regeneration. Abnormally large blood bags, filled with A+, hung from drip stands positioned at the four corners of the table, looming over the patient like bright red phantoms. Needles were pushed through the skin, ready to administer shots of adrenaline and various hormones at the correct times.

The tubes and wires created a spider's web of medical equipment around Snape's supine body. Hermione placed her hands on the bare areas of Snape's chest, spreading her fingers as wide as she could. At the head of the table, she saw her assistant, Stephens, charge the rod-shaped electrodes with his usual quiet efficiency. They had worked together for four years now, yet already they functioned like a single being, Stephens anticipating her moves before she could even demonstrate them by word or deed. He was exceptionally good at his job, but he kept to the sidelines for the most part. Repair was Hermione's domain, not his.

"Bracing for shock one," said Hermione, straightening her elbows, though not quite locking them.

Stephens placed the electrodes at either side of Snape's head, letting them just brush the skin to transfer the shock. Snape's body jumped, but Hermione forced the chest flat to avoid him tearing free from the wires, protected from receiving a shock herself by the gloves. Stephens placed the electrodes back in their holders before upping the oxygen content. There were several hisses as the pneumatic pistons set off the first round of injections, the carefully positioned hypodermic needles firing chemical messages into the body.

"Bracing for shock two."

Snape's body jumped again as the second wave of electricity passed through his body, muscle fibres contracting and relaxing spasmodically. Hermione closed her eyes and willed the magic out through her fingers, through Snape's skin barrier and deep down into the muscle. There was a beep as the heart gave a single, feeble contraction.

Hermione felt the third shock go through him and heard the hiss of the pistons. She focused harder, pushing as much magic as she could from her fingers, and the heart began to beat again as the SAN began to fire contraction signals independently. Raw magic was powerful, but unfocused, and she had to fight to keep her hands planted firmly on his chest as the body began to function again. Each muscle contracted and relaxed as the newly fired brain began to run its own diagnostic tests. The brain monitor spiked, the readings going off the chart. High brain activity usually began in the later stages of regeneration, but it was not unprecedented for it to begin now. Patients of a higher intelligence displayed signs of thought long before their dim-witted compatriots.

Five minutes later, Snape fell quiet; his body once again limp upon the table. The heart monitor beeped out a strong rhythm as the heart circulated the new blood about his body. His chest rose and fell in a smooth breathing pattern, oxygenating his brain once more. Hermione, satisfied with his output, began to unhook the blood bags and remove the needles. Slowly but surely, the complex web of tubing was dismantled, leaving Snape bare upon the silver table, connected only to the monitors.

Hermione removed her gloves and her gown, dumping them in the medical waste receptacle along with the other remnants of today's work. They would be taken to the incinerator later that day.

She walked back over to Snape.

"His brain activity seems regular as does the heart rhythm. I don't expect he'll wake up much before tomorrow."

"I'll arrange for updates to be put up on the live feed down here."

"Good," she said, nodding to Stephens, who had transferred him to a trolley and proceeded to roll him out to the specially created Intensive Care Unit up on floor four.

Just as he passed through the door, Snape opened his eyes.

Hermione could not tell if it was good news or bad.

Stephens leant over the computer, his face set in a mask of concentration. Lights flickered on and off at irregular intervals as each vital sign changed, the Ministry mainframe keeping a digital log of Snape's every breath, every blink. Every beat of his heart. Hermione watched as Stephens contemplated the machine before him. He had surgeon's hands, delicate with long fingers, and he guided them across the keypad with purpose and conviction.

"Mr Snape's no longer unconscious," he said, still completely focused on the computer.

It had only been six hours since the completed regeneration. It was rare for a patient to emerge from their original comatose state in under twenty-four hours. Hermione was more than pleased. Sometimes patients didn't wake up at all.

"His readings?" she asked, unable to keep the satisfaction out of her voice.

"All normal. Well, as normal as they get. His heart rate always will be slightly elevated due to the stress, but we can control that with the meds."

Hermione smiled, setting her pen down on top of the large pile of paperwork that lay on the table before her. Pulling on her lab robes, she rose and walked over to the door.

"I'm going to go and take a look," she said.

Stephens merely nodded in reply, waving her on through the doorway.

It was all Hermione could do to stop herself from sprinting down the hallway. She rode the lift to the fourth floor, her foot taping impatiently against the floor, and almost knocked over a porter in her haste as she emerged. The entrance to ICU was draped with a large banner proclaiming the funds raised at the latest charity bash. Hermione gave it merely a glance as she strode through the hissing automatic glass doors and into the ward itself.

He was in bed three. And most definitely awake. She saw startlingly dark eyes. An expression of mild annoyance.

"Welcome back to the world, Professor Snape," she said, unable to bring herself to refer to him as anything else, even though it had been almost seven years since he'd been her teacher. It was a mark of respect.

He didn't reply. He merely sniffed in disdain. She didn't think he remembered who she was – he was still expecting her scrawny eighteen-year-old self, not a woman of twenty-five. Edging closer to the bed, she began to fold the crumpled covers that lay at his hips. She ignored the icy stare. The unit had dressed him in a light blue gown, and it did nothing for his colouring, making him seem more pale and fragile than she remembered. The lightweight fabric highlighted his angular frame, the bones more prominent than ever in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

Hermione sat down in the chair beside his bed, crossing her legs in a ladylike fashion. She leant closer, her eyes parallel with his.

"Do you know who you are?"

"Severus Snape," he said, his expression one of incredulity. "That is what it says on my chart. If, indeed, the chart at the end of the bed is mine."

Hermione was slightly taken aback at his answer. Whilst he clearly remembered very little, or perhaps even nothing at all, about himself, his personality was the same as ever. He was brusque; he was impatient. Full of half-presumed answers and ashamed to admit ignorance.

"And do you remember anything else? Anything about yourself?"

He gave her a dark look. "Since I can't remember my own name without prompting, I think not."

His tone was overly sarcastic, and Hermione resisted the urge to frown in distaste. Patients were highly susceptible to mood swings within the first seventy-two hours of regeneration, and she couldn't afford to expose him to negative stimulus – the human brain was a delicate thing, and it wouldn't do for it to pick up bad habits from another.

Instead, she picked at a loose thread on the lapel of her lab robes before asking in an overly bright voice: "Do you know why you're here?"

"Due to some sort of accident, I dare say. In which I seem to have acquired a mild form of amnesia."

"Of a sort."

"Of a sort? You either are, or you are not."

Hermione took a deep breath. This was the worst part of the job, telling someone they were dead. Telling them they only have three years left before they are sent back to the dead and all who lie with them. The magic caused mutations, unravelling and changing the DNA at whim. Three years was the maximum recorded life span, so far.

"I'm afraid you were in an accident," she glanced down at her clasped hands, gathering her confidence before bringing her gaze back up to meet his. "A rather serious one. And... er... that is to say, you were unable to be resuscitated. I'm afraid you passed on."

To Snape's credit, he didn't even flinch. Some patients, when told of their demise, became hysterical, either denying the whole thing or lapsing into a fit of tears, and sometimes both. But no, Snape just sat there, his expression as impassive as before, his black gaze never wavering from hers.

"Then this is hell." His tone was one of finality, no trace of sarcasm this time. And, somehow, Hermione thought Snape knew he wouldn't have ended up in heaven. That he knew he wasn't sweetness and light, even if it was only deep in his subconscious. Though amnesia was a common side effect in these sorts of procedures, the patients often knew who they were – not by name, but by feeling. After all, one can only change what they become, not what they were to begin with.

"Not hell, no." Hermione smiled gently. She began to raise her hand to offer some kind of comfort, but stopped, watching with fascination as she saw Snape's gaze darken. Clearly a man who did not require comfort, no matter how freely it was given. She straightened her skirt before continuing.

"You were brought back. Given three extra years of allotted life. This is very much the earth you remember – or will, given time.

"You see, you are needed by the Ministry for one of their projects. A bill was passed two months ago that, in the later stages of the development plan, would require the assistance of a highly qualified Potions master. You are that Potions master. So, the Ministry commissioned your resurrection and clinical remodelling."

"Remodelling?" His eyes flashed a little with something Hermione thought akin to fear, though not quite.

"We repaired the wound at your neck. It's just the Ministry term for the repair you underwent to enable your body capable for life. Rest assured, aside from the slight scar at you neck, and the elevated heart rate, you are just the same as you were before." She looked at him imploringly, willing him to understand. "We are scientists, Professor, not monsters."

"Why do you keep calling me 'Professor'?" he asked, his expression one of puzzlement.

"That was your title before... well, before your employment was terminated."

"Before I bit the dust, so to speak."

"Quite." Hermione paused, considering her options. What to tell him? At this stage, she had to be careful; even the smallest word could initiate recall, and there were parts of him she thought he'd be better off without. "You were a teacher," she said, opting for vague, but accurate, "up at a boarding school in Scotland. You taught Potions."

His eyes narrowed a fraction. "Did I teach you?"

Hermione's eyes hardened. "No."

She was amazed at how easily the lie passed between her lips.

Snape seemed satisfied with the statement, his eyes widening back into deep pools of darkness. He seemed to stare straight through her and into her soul with those captivating black eyes of his, and Hermione found herself unable to look away, fearful that, should she turn, he'd take a piece of her soul with him.

"Then you are to call me 'Severus'."

He chuckled wryly to himself, a soft sound that seemed unnatural to Hermione. In all the years she'd known him, he'd never cracked the smallest of smiles, yet here he was, laughing. She wasn't quite sure what to make of it, so she smiled gently, courteously accepting his offer.

"It would seem inappropriate for a man unsure of even his own name, let alone his status, to demand formality."

"Perhaps, but I wouldn't begrudge you the right, Severus." The name felt a little weird upon her tongue. It was as though she were crossing some sort of forbidden boundary. But it was too late to turn back now. She could only throw herself headlong into whatever situation waited beyond. So she did. "And you must call me 'Hermione'. 'Dr. Granger' is a little too stuffy for my tastes."

"Hermione..." He said the word as though he were tasting it, savouring the syllables as he rolled it around his tongue. "Yes. That'll do."

He broke eye contact, and Hermione looked away, her gaze focusing on the jug of water on the bedside table. She leant over, grasping the china handle with trembling fingers and poured out two full glasses.

"Water?" she asked, taking one of the glasses from the nightstand and holding it before him. He nodded, and she lifted it to his mouth, tipping it slightly so that the water passed between his lips. So focused on her task, trying but failing not to spill water down his chin, she was startled as a pair of warm hands covered her own, guiding her movements. She hadn't thought him strong enough yet.

My, he's a fighter. One for the records, I think.

Slowly, the hands began to guide hers back, bringing the glass away from his mouth. When they left hers to flop back down on the bedside, she felt a strange sense of loss. The touch hadn't been anything to write home about, just simple warm skin to slightly cooler skin contact, but the loss... Hermione wasn't quite sure what to make of it. It felt as though her world had closed in, leaving her feeling oddly empty. Like she was missing something she didn't have before. It puzzled her. She took a large gulp from the other, full glass of water, trying to reassemble her thoughts.

Shaking her head, Hermione focused once again on Snape. Severus. She was going to have to get used to calling him that.

Hermione focused on Severus, watching as his eyelids began to droop. She rose from her place on the chair beside the bed, and she began to draw up his covers. It wouldn't do for him to get cold. Not after all the trouble she'd gone to bringing him back. It would be just her luck to lose him to something as preventable as hypothermia. And she didn't think the Ministry officials would take too kindly to that.

"Are you leaving so soon?" he asked, his words slightly slurred as he was overcome by another wave of drowsiness.

"You need to rest. I will be back later." She walked to the edge of the bed, her hand unconsciously caressing the rail. He looked about to protest, but she cut him off with a simple, "Rest."

Hermione watched as he complied, albeit grudgingly. Satisfied that he was sleepy enough to be left, she proceeded to walk to the door, her heels clicking noisily on the tiled floor. The automatic doors hissed as they opened, letting in the cool air from the corridor. Hermione was just about to step through when she heard a faint noise coming from cubicle three.

"Good night, Hermione."

Hermione left the ICU in a hurry, the echo of her own name ringing uncomfortably in her head. No longer Miss Granger, no longer a child. A woman. Hermione. And that thought scared her more than anything.