It always began with the Summons – an ebony design glowing darkly against the bleached parchment of his skin, the red-hot pain making its insidious way toward his veins. His forearm shrieked with the black calling and the pain became a molasses turtle of ever-spreading agony. He hadn't realized it would be this bad, so the first Summons had surprised him.

The Dark Mark was an odd Portkey, Severus Snape thought casually. He ignored the by-now-familiar sensations screaming through his body. He wondered if he would accept the Mark again, knowing what he did now. But he was grateful for the unique Portkey aspects of the ink in his arm. Unlike most Portkeys, this one worked with another potion, one Severus knew so well that he could literally make it without ever looking at the work he was doing.

He proved that now, mind on the Summons, eyes glazed in thought. It was a peculiar time for the Summons. He couldn't remember Voldemort ever Summoning him on the first day of school. As he continued to mix the ingredients, his mind worried at the reasoning behind the Summons. Potter had remarked, after the fiasco the previous year, that Voldemort mentioned two Death Eaters in particular, both stationed at Hogwarts. According to the boy, Voldemort considered one a trusted ally and the second a traitor, but no clues had been given as to the identity of either. Snape was well-aware that he'd gone pale after the boy's report. Could it be that Voldemort had figured out whose side he was truly on?

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Snape finished the mixture, bringing the potion down to a low boil. Voldemort was impatient, Snape knew, but the Dark Lord was also pragmatic. People knew of the existence of the potion, which was a useful excuse for why Snape had to make his own batch each time. To keep up appearances at school, he certainly couldn't store the stuff. The ten-minute simmer gave him time to prepare for the meeting. He Flued Dumbledore, explaining the situation, and gave an estimated time of when to expect his return. He hoped to return by morning, but suggested that Dumbledore tell the students he'd taken ill if such was not the case.

Once that was finished, he put on some older and rather worn robes. When Voldemort was unhappy, clothing had a habit of getting torn – as did skin. To that end, Snape concealed three healing pellets in his cheeks, careful to place them in such a way that they would not be damaged by the hot potion. One bite, and many of his wounds would close. Such subterfuge was the only reason he'd returned alive, some nights.

Finally prepared, Snape turned back to the seething potion, wincing slightly as he looked at it. It was a thin, bubbling liquid that he knew had to be ingested while still very hot. He'd often caused burns to his mouth and throat as he gulped down the two hundred forty milliliters the potion demanded. And keeping it so hot while measuring it had taken some work, too. But he'd finally perfected it, as he did with all potions eventually, and now it was simple enough to take the cup he'd set aside, carefully pouring the potion inside. Approximately two milliliters always remained on the cup itself, so he took that into account. Moments after he'd started the meticulous calculations, he poured the liquid down his throat, grimacing at what he expected to be second-degree burns. He imagined that he could feel the blisters beginning already.

Then the sucking sensation came, followed by a rather nauseating feeling that not all of him had arrived, that he'd been splinched in some Apparational farce. The thick ink, lurking just under his skin, seemed to be trying to break free, despite the fact that it was nothing more than an ancient tattoo. He was moving too quickly to see his surroundings, too quickly to be seen by anyone. And then, before his mind had fully accustomed itself to the idea that his body was speeding through the air, he jerked to a stop. His stomach slammed back into place, the Portkey receded, and Severus Snape did a credible impression of a landed salmon.

As Snape's mind slowly returned to his body, he heard the high, icy laughter of the Dark Lord. There were seven standing nearby, in a sort of casual circle whose shape owed itself more to the fact that no Death Eater trusted another than the idea of ceremony. Snape remained still, waiting to hear what Voldemort said. He didn't have to wait long.

Voldemort sauntered closer, his presence needling over Snape's clothed skin and giving the Potions Master goose bumps. One unnaturally long finger touched Snape's chin, drawing his face up so that Voldemort might peer into it more easily. Whatever he read in Snape's eyes must have amused him, for he smiled coldly, shaking his head. "I never thought to see the day, Severus." Snape bristled slightly at the familiar address, but said nothing. "You have ever been my staunchest ally. What changed you?"

Voldemort waited for an answer, but the words did not immediately make sense to Snape. The black eyes widened as he realized what Voldemort had said. He was, indeed, to be named traitor this night. Regrets washed over him as his mind examined the life that he was soon to leave behind. And still Voldemort awaited an answer.

He could deny it, Snape thought. He could pretend that he didn't understand what Voldemort was hinting, could fake being outraged at the accusation. But in his heart, he knew it was already over. All he could really do was wait for Voldemort to be finished taunting him, so that he might die. He regretted, briefly, everything he'd done.

But regret wasn't enough. Atonement was in order, and his only hope now could come from standing still and accepting whatever Voldemort dished out. He knew the Dark Lord's power well enough to understand that escape wasn't an option, whether by word or deed. So silent he stood, staring at Voldemort.

"Well?" Voldemort asked, growing impatient. "Are you not even going to claim innocence? Pitiful fool. Do you understand how painful I intend to make your life?" Snape couldn't quite hide his confusion, and Voldemort's smile grew. "Oh yes. I intend to leave you alive. But I assure you, by the time I'm done, you will be absolutely begging me to put you out of your misery. You see, I know how to take away the one thing you value in this world. You are a survivor, Snape, but I can make you wish that you could give up."

For a moment longer, Snape didn't seem to understand. And then the knowledge filtered through his brain. He'd seen the process before. He'd been present when Frank Longbottom and his wife had been tortured in just such fashion. And he knew that his mind could withstand the pain for longer than theirs did, which only made the whole idea that much worse. Cruciatus was an incredibly painful spell, more due to the fact that it would rob him of his intellect, leaving him a sniveling, drooling idiot, than the threat of physical agony, however intense.

As soon as recognition flashed in his eyes, Voldemort attacked. Snape didn't even hear the command word. His body folded in upon itself, and the pain of the inky Portkey was nothing compared to the pain he was now faced with. His mind rebelled, trying to find a source for the pain so that something might be done. But there was no source for the pain. It was everywhere and nowhere, and nothing could be done. Nothing at all.

And then Voldemort did something that shocked him. "I'm going to let you go now, Severus. Your purpose is not quite fulfilled. You see, I intend to kill two birds with one stone. Or two minds with one spell, as it were. I'm certain it will do your master good to see you like this." The mockery was lost on Snape. The only master Voldemort could be referring to was Albus Dumbledore, and if he was sent to Dumbledore, he could do something. His mind latched onto the thought and held tight to sanity. Snape vaguely noticed Lucius Malfoy claiming his wand as Voldemort prepared the transportation spell. With a vicious jerk downward, Malfoy broke the flexible wood over his knee, then tossed it on the ground. The Naiad hair inside transformed into water, seeping down into the ground.

But he could survive without a wand. He could stopper death, after all. Snape held that thought as the convulsions threatened to break his spine. He didn't even notice the twisting nausea of the Apparition. That didn't matter. He was outside Hogwart's grounds when he looked up, and from there, he knew he could do what he had to.

If he met students on the way to the dungeons, Snape didn't notice. It was unlikely, of course. The whole meeting hadn't taken more than fifteen minutes, though it felt a great deal longer. And all the students were asleep, preparing for the next days classes. Even seventh years, who didn't have a precise curfew, were supposed to be holed up in their respective towers, studying at the very least. It took him an hour to get to his workroom, a trip that normally might have taken only twenty minutes. He knew he had all of the ingredients. He kept every one of them in his private stores for an emergency such as this. He'd known he would have to fight the Cruciatus off sooner or later.

With hands that were as steady as he could possibly make them, Snape gathered the ingredients. Some were easy and stable, like flobberworm slime. Others required more delicate handling, like the Acromantula leg hair, which would poison him if he didn't have on gloves woven of thin strands of pure silver. Finally, however, he'd gotten everything set up. If he calculated correctly, a difficult thing in his current state, he'd have precisely twenty minutes to get from the dungeons to the hospital wing. He could do it. Willpower was one of the few things he had left.

Ten minutes it took to brew the potion to the proper consistency. He gathered up the keen paring knife on the table, touching the blade to the inside of his wrist, just over the small vein. He pressed down, slowly puncturing the skin to obtain the three drops of blood required. Suddenly, his walls against the pain broke, and Cruciatus washed over him anew, no longer disregarded in the background. He fell to his knees, the blade slicing savagely through his pale skin. The cut was deep but the blood would clot before he died of loss, he saw as he forced himself to measure out the three drops. He was so close to ending the pain entirely. Finally, he cupped the goblet in his hands and drained it, then gasped as the potion took immediate effect.

A crunch and sharp pain told him that his left foot's little toe had broken. He took a step toward the door, ignoring the screaming pain, then wavered as the same toe broke on his right foot. He'd never tested the Liquefiere Potion before, but the theory was sound, and all he had to do was make it to the hospital wing and Pomfrey could put him to rights. He would survive this.

The thought forced him into an all-out run. His robes billowed behind him and he whimpered constantly, but he sprinted out of the room and through the hall. As he reached the stairs, the breakage reached his first metatarsal, the bones just behind the toe bones. Snape yelped, stumbling. Somehow, he managed to right himself and continue on. Climbing the stairs with all ten metatarsals breaking slowly was incredibly difficult, but he succeeded. He was at the top of the stairs when two things happened. The most immediate was that his left talus broke. The bone was the crux of his foot, and without it, he crashed down onto the floor, breaking his nose in the process. Blood poured down face, dripping onto the worn stone beneath him, and he screamed. The pain rushed in his ears, and he almost didn't realize that a student was shrieking for help.

Hermione frowned, staring at the potions book in frustration. For the first time that she could recall, she actually didn't understand what she'd read. It didn't matter that the language was archaic or the writing Black Text. She could handle such obstacles. No, what she didn't understand is what she was doing wrong. She'd attempted the first potion in the book at the beginning of the summer, and when it failed, she'd chalked it up to her misreading somewhere. So she had painstakingly copied the text out of her book, writing clearly and legibly. Then she'd made another go of it, and another after that. After the third try, she'd made a checklist of every step, and checked them all off. No matter what she'd done, the color was a disgusting magenta instead of the cranberry-red it was supposed to be. She didn't dare test it without a qualified mediwitch present, which prevented her from finding out if the description had merely been off.

So after the First Night Feast, when other students were preparing for bed, she'd decided to sneak into the potions classroom to try it there. Thirty minutes of brewing, and she ended up with the same magenta color she always had. Frustrated beyond measure, and determined to understand what she was doing wrong, even if it meant detention, she packed up her book and a sample of the potion, then headed toward Professor Snape's rooms in the dungeons. If anyone could explain it, it was Professor Snape, and Hermione wasn't about to allow her extreme dislike of the teacher to keep her from knowledge.

She'd just reached the final flight of stairs down when she found him, black robe just settling onto his writhing body. He screamed, not having noticed her, and she caught sight of dark, viscous blood flowing from his nose. Her stomach rebelled at the sight, but she fought the nausea down, screaming for help before realizing that she was the help, the only one likely to be found down in the dungeons aside from Professor Snape himself.

"Professor?" she asked, wincing as he began to struggle down the hall, having not heard her. She couldn't understand why he didn't stand, but didn't press it. She followed him for a bit, then froze as he suddenly gathered himself together and rose to his knees. He looked around, tears pouring from his eyes, and saw her. "Pomfrey." The word hung between them, harsh and cracked, not at all like his normal oily voice. "Mobilicorpus." For a moment, Hermione didn't understand. As she stared at him, he cried out, falling once more.

And then it fit into place. She fumbled for her wand, in the process dropping the vial of potion she'd been planning to show him. The magenta fluid hissed as it splashed over the trail of blood Snape had left, eating away at the stonework. Hermione gulped, then forced her mind back to Snape. Pointing the wand straight at him, she said clearly, "Petrificus Totalus." Snape straightened out, clattering to the floor with a thump that a board would envy. "Mobilicorpus," caused him to rise into the air, floating after her as she made her way quickly to the hospital wing. When she looked back and decided the floating was taking too long, she cast once more. "Accelerare!" The floating hastened, and soon kept up with her breakneck run.

"MADAM POMFREY!" Hermione yelled as she burst into the hospital wing, Snape's immobilized form trailing behind her in midair. She'd heard several of the bones break on the way, and she was terrified. Poppy Pomfrey heard the commotion and hurried out. When Hermione saw her, the young girl broke down in relief. "Madam Pomfrey . . . Thank Merlin! It's Professor Snape, Madam. Something's wrong with him, and I don't know what!" Hermione turned, directing her charge to a bed and ensuring that he was laying down properly before she released the charms she'd placed on him.

When Snape's mouth worked, the first thing they heard was a harsh, agonized scream. Pomfrey jumped, and Hermione flinched, hurrying to the Professor and taking his hand. Gone was the idea that this was her hated Potions Master. All she could think about now was the fact that whoever he was, he was in a great deal of pain and she somehow had to help him. She turned panicked eyes up at Madam Pomfrey, who tutted softly, examining him. Just as she reached his waist, Snape hissed out two words.

"Liquefiere Potion." Hermione looked up at Madam Pomfrey, who had gone china-white. As Snape subsided into mindless anguish, Madam Pomfrey hurried to her potions-cabinet. She drew out the Skele-Gro bottle, then added four or five other potions to her arms before returning to his bedside. Drawing out her wand, she charmed away all the bones in Snape's body, then immediately forced a thin grey-green potion down his throat. Snape choked on it, but that seemed to be the least of Pomfrey's concerns. Snape relaxed suddenly, closing his eyes as she drew the bottle away.

Hermione didn't move from his side. She still held his hand, which now felt like a pulsing rubber bag. The bonelessness left her with a vague impression that his skin was slimy. Madam Pomfrey didn't bother to explain what was going on. She was too busy focusing on her patient. She did not even send for Professor Dumbledore until Snape had stabilized. The only way Hermione even knew that Snape was relatively safe was the fact that Madam Pomfrey left his side to owl Dumbledore. Hermione rested her head on the bed, Snape's hand still in hers. She was desperately trying to remain strong and not cry, but she wanted so badly to give in. And she had to remember the name of the potion Snape had said he'd taken. She assumed he'd taken that one, anyway, since Madam Pomfrey had gotten so many. If he was curing himself, Hermione assumed it would only take the potions he named to fix him.

When she finally raised her head again, Hermione found Dumbledore standing over her, watching her with a tiny smile on his face. "Ah, my dear. I'm so sorry you had to witness this," Dumbledore said gently, sitting himself across from her. Snape was still unconscious, and Hermione self-consciously made to release his hand. But Dumbledore stopped her before she could do more than flex her fingers. "I imagine that Professor Snape is even now drawing comfort from your touch, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said. Hermione nodded, settling back down. After a moment, Dumbledore sat down on the bed across from her. "Madam Pomfrey tells me that Professor Snape took a Liquefiere Potion. Is that what you heard, as well?"

Hermione nodded, then found her voice. "Yes, Headmaster. But I don't know what it is." Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully, then nodded.

"It is a dark potion, and one that can only be made by a true Potions Master." Dumbledore reached out, stroking Snape's hair away from his face. In her worry, Hermione hadn't even noticed the small detail. "Madam Pomfrey saved him in time, Miss Granger, but our fight is not yet over. He will need bed rest and quiet while he is recuperating."

She understood this, at least. "You're asking me to keep Harry and Ron out while Snape's here."

Dumbledore laughed. "Harry does tend to bring out the worst in Professor Snape, does he not? But no, that's not what I'm asking from you, Miss Granger. I cannot help but notice your worry over Professor Snape. Dare I take this to mean that you are prepared to act maturely?"

Hermione drew herself up straight and nodded slowly. Dumbledore's smile became blinding. "Then I should like you to aid in Professor Snape's recovery. The one thing he tends to ignore," this said with a fond smile at Snape, "is the power of companionship. That is what I am asking of you, Hermione Granger. Are you willing to come here after class and sit with him?" When she nodded, he smiled. "It will not be an easy task, of course. Professor Snape has been known to resist even the greatest temptations. He will likely question you at every turn. I suggest you ask him about potions. That often calms him somewhat."

Before she could say anything, Dumbledore had arisen again, and was striding to the doors. She started to call out, but he turned before she could do more than open her mouth and emit a brief squawk. "I will, of course, be asking others to take up this duty as well." He looked at her for a long minute, and she searched herself.

"Please, sir . . . I'll be more than happy to take care of the hours between class and curfew." She saw Dumbledore's eyes twinkle. "I feel rather responsible for him," she admitted.

"Yes, of course. Such is often the case when a generous person saves another's life." Hermione shivered at Dumbledore's assessment, not sure quite what to say. Finally, she merely asked another question.

"Sir? Why did he take the potion in the first place?"

"Ah, now that is a tale I will leave to Professor Snape. And need I suggest that the true reason he is here does not go further than the three of us? I would prefer not even as far as Misters Weasley and Potter." The faintest of solemn nods answered him. "I must go. I will send Professor McGonagall in to relieve you, along with Professor Vector to see you to bed."

For Hermione, the very worst day of Snape's convalescence was the first day after her talk with Dumbledore. Snape was completely unconscious still – a good thing in Madam Pomfrey's eyes. It saved him from the three-day, painful process of Skele-Gro. But for Hermione, who had forgotten to bring anything to distract herself with, it was a silent, fear-inducing vigil. Gryffindor she might be, but Hermione still shrank from the floppy body before her, a body which pulsed in places and occasionally ballooned out into a more normal shape as the Skele-Gro finally worked.

The rubber-mask of a face was the first thing to go, as he regained a skull. That helped Hermione's outlook. She'd seen all manner of monsters in the Monster book of Monsters, but nothing was quite like a living body with no bones. The hand she held still felt a bit slimy in her imagination, and by the time the first night of her vigil was over, her skin was dry from hourly washing to get the feel of that hand off.

When she returned to the Gryffindor Common room fifteen minutes before curfew, Ron and Harry anxiously awaited an explanation of where she'd been. But she ignored them, too emotionally exhausted to come up with a good distraction. She dragged herself through the toiletries before bedtime, then collapsed into the bed. Within moments she was asleep, and all night she dreamt of a rubber-man chasing her through the Halls of Hogwarts.

After three days, the vigil was much more comfortable. Hermione had owled her parents for a knapsack, which she used to carry books, pencils, and a notebook into the hospital wing. When taking notes, she much preferred mechanical pencils to the quills she used for normal school work. And her notebook was full of lined paper, something else she'd requested from her parents. The books she borrowed from the library, but the research was not an easy task. Most of the books she really wanted to read had to be approved by a teacher. But she didn't approach a teacher. Instead, she discovered from what she could read that the procedure for making the potion was extremely obscure. Of the hundreds of books in the Hogwarts Library, only three mentioned the potion, and of them, only one went into any depth about it.

Hermione wasn't quite sure what to make of the entry, but she set the book aside, hoping to discuss what she'd found with Professor Snape when he finally awoke. But in the meantime, she set her mind to studying everything she could find on the subject.

During those first few days, Hermione was astounded to discover that, along with Professor McGonagall, who oversaw Snape's nighttime rest, Hermione shared her vigil duties with Sybil Trelawney. The fluttering woman had grudgingly given way when Hermione approached after class, leaving a small charm on the pillow beside Professor Snape's head. Hermione had waited until she was gone, then tucked the charm into a drawer in the bedside table, resolving to tell Professor McGonagall about it when she was relieved that night.

On the fifth day, well after the Skele-Gro had performed its miraculous feat and Hermione had grown comfortable in her new surroundings, Snape awoke. It was not an explosive reaction. Despite Hermione's fears, he did not jump out of bed screaming. Instead, she merely looked up from one of her longer book passages and discovered him watching her.

"Professor Snape, you've awakened," she said, then inwardly sighed as she thought about what an inane observation that had been. But Snape made no acerbic comments. He nodded, leaving Hermione floundering for what to say next. "I, uh, found you in the hall." Once more, a nod, solemn and cool. Hermione shifted in her seat, uncomfortable. "Madam Pomfrey said you might experience an occasional bone-ache for the next three months. She charmed your entire skeleton away and gave you several doses of Skele-Gro. There were some other potions along with it, but they didn't have labels, and I was too scared to ask."

A raised eyebrow greeted her final comment, and then Snape opened his mouth. When he spoke, his voice was thick, almost as though he were speaking around something. "A Gryffindor admits to being scared? How interesting." The vitriolic words soothed Hermione's soul. If he was capable of being cruel, then he was the Snape she knew and hated.

"I could hear your bones breaking all the way up to the hospital wing! Of course I was scared. I had no idea what you'd done to yourself or why. And I'm no Potions Master. I hadn't the slightest idea of whether it was repairable. And Madam Pomfrey didn't tell me anything. She ignored me completely. There was no one else here." To Hermione's utter shame, she burst into tears. "I didn't know what was going on!"

Snape swallowed at the sight of the droplets sliding down Hermione's cheeks, but frowned at her. When he spoke again, his voice was clearer. "Pull yourself together, Miss Granger. It is hardly a time for hysterics." The ice of his voice calmed her. She wouldn't let Snape see her worry any longer. "I am well enough, though I will likely require quite a bit of recuperation. You're free to go back to your room."

"Oh no," she said, shaking her head vehemently. "Professor Dumbledore said I should stay with you, and I'm staying!"

Snape sighed, sinking deeper into his pillow. "As you wish, Miss Granger. You will hardly find me a pleasant conversationalist, however, so I suggest you keep such attempts to a minimum." Something in his voice caught Hermione's attention, and she ignored her wounded pride for a moment to search his face. She realized that he was exhausted, in pain, and scared. The fear surprised her, and she covered by saying.

"As you wish, Professor. If you'd like to talk, I'm here." And she turned back to her book, staring blindly at the words as she pondered what she'd seen in his eyes.

It took Severus Snape only two days of bedridden misery to determine that he thrived on his infrequent conversations with faculty and students. Given his tendency toward solitary pursuits such as reading and potion-making, he'd never expected to want to talk to another soul. But he found himself aching for conversation. The mornings were particularly rough. Certainly, Sybil Trelawney was tiresome enough when Snape was well. While he was ill, however, she was positively unbearable. And when he complained to Dumbledore during one of the Headmaster's daily visits, the Headmaster merely smiled complacently and agreed that Trelawney could sometimes be a bit . . . fluttery.

His nights with Minerva McGonagall were much preferable. Though they had never gotten along well, they both respected one another's talents, and found easy conversation in work. Snape felt it was a bit of a shame that McGonagall had done so poorly in potions. If she'd just shared that one interest with him, he could easily have found himself falling in love with her. She had a keen mind and her stern disposition suited his own well. But as he lay in bed after she'd left for the night, he considered again. Falling in love while he was still under Voldemort's thumb was hardly something to desire. Had Voldemort ever discovered a lover, she would have become the hostage of the Dark Lord, subject to his whims and held against her lover's treason.

The times that gnawed at his brain, however, were the afternoons. Miss Granger had shown a surprising tenacity in returning to his bedside each day. She brought books with her every time, in a knapsack he knew she didn't carry into his classroom each day. And aside from a brief greeting and the occasional offer to get him food or drink, she didn't speak unless he spoke first to her. And after three days of such treatment, he broke his silence, needing some company.

"What are you studying, Miss Granger?" The words were cool but not cold, and he watched as she lifted her head.

She regarded him steadily for a long minute, then spoke, her voice deliberate. "The Liquefiere Potion." Snape could feel the blood drain from his face, and forced his expression to remain neutral.

"And why, pray tell, are you studying such a subject?" His tone was low and dangerous, dark silk covering a poisoned dagger. His cover might have been shot, but he could still ensure that no others found their way into the danger of the Dark Arts. Particularly those unsuited to the Arts, such as Gryffindors.

"Because of you," she stated easily, shrugging and looking back down at the book. "As near as I can tell, you took the potion, and that's what was killing you. It would make sense, given some of the descriptions I've read. That's why Madam Pomfrey removed your skeleton. It was too far gone even for her to heal. So I'm trying to figure out why you would take it. It's not easy, either," she continued, ignoring his stunned look. "I can't even seem to find a complete list of ingredients."

It took Snape several minutes to regain his voice. "You won't. Not here. It's far too dangerous a potion to leave lying around a school. Many of the ingredients are highly poisonous," he said, only to be cut off mid-sentence.

"Yes, but the bezoar would take care of most of the poison, wouldn't it?"

She did her homework, he had to give her that. She'd managed to find the only book in the entire school which contained mention of that particular ingredient. And he knew for a fact that although the book was not locked away in the restricted section, it certainly was not easy to find. "Yes," he said reluctantly. "But what it doesn't take care of is the effect on the physical body. It will neutralize the poisons, but not the mind's knowledge of them. In other words, your body will begin to decay due to the poisons that are no longer in your system, simply because your mind believes that the poisons are there."

Her eyes grew wide. "I see," she murmured, looking at him.

He debated not telling her. He debated sending an owl to the librarian to alert the woman that Hermione Granger was not to check out any books from the restricted section on potions without his prior approval. But somehow, he suspected that Dumbledore would find a way to destroy that little note before it ever reached its intended target. If the Headmaster had one fault, it was his willingness to allow people too much information.

"The potion is a cure for Cruciatus," he said in defeat, then continued before she could ask questions. "Using the poisons as a focus, the Liquefiere Potion forces the pain to take a physical form. The bezoar stone neutralizes the poisons themselves, but by the time it can work, the pain has already slipped into the material body, and has begun the slow and debilitating task of destroying the body one part at a time. It begins with the bones, shattering them beyond Muggle repair. That's why it is recommended to have a medi-witch on hand to heal them. Medi-witches can do things that Muggles and wizards alike can only dream of."

Hermione frowned at him. "You didn't have a medi-witch on hand. You were in the dungeons."

"Yes, I was," he admitted simply. "I believed that I would have enough time to make it to the hospital wing before the potion took effect. I was wrong, as you noticed." He fought very hard to keep the words dispassionate. "From the bones, the potion moves on to rot the major organs of the body. The rotting is, of course, much faster than it would normally be. By the time that process is over, the victim is usually dead, so the rest of the body's breakdown, which does continue unabated, would be negligible."

"I see," Hermione said. Snape lay back on the pillows, surprised at how very exhausted he was. "One more question," she continued, and Snape stifled a sigh. He had been the one to initiate this conversation, after all. "Were you attacked by Death Eaters?"

Snape bolted back upright, staring at her. He didn't bother to hide his flummoxed look, though he did force himself not to grab her by the neck and demand she never use those words again. "No. Not as such," he said after a moment, and Hermione nodded, looking down. He considered explaining the entire situation for a few brief seconds, then sank back down to the pillows once more, closing his eyes.

That night, after Minerva had replaced Miss Granger as his companion, Snape brooded. He ruminated about his place in the war and what would happen to the Light, but he mostly dwelled upon Miss Granger's deduction of who had attacked him. She'd been damnably close, making Snape wonder just how much she knew about his past, and from whom she'd discovered it.

Minerva seemed to realize that he had things on his mind, for she set up the Wizarding chess board without a single word to him. He played absent-mindedly at best. The only thing that kept his pieces from shouting at him for his various mistakes was the fact that he'd trained them so very well. They knew to keep their peace during nights like these, and to Snape's shame, there were a great many. After four games in silence, Snape lay back on his pillows, exhausted. Minerva nodded, packing up the board and carefully placing both sets of chess pieces back in their boxes.

Dinner passed without being noted by either of them. The food was as good as always, but Snape's mind didn't pay any attention to it. And after dinner was done and Madam Pomfrey had performed a cleaning charm on him and his clothing, Snape settled down to bad dreams. They were the only kind of dream he had anymore, and he'd long since gotten used to them. Though he'd never quite managed to learn how to change his dreams, he did a credible job of ignoring them. The Dark Revels he relived were just that, memories.

But somewhere along the way, he'd discovered that memories could, in fact, hurt. The pain was something more than physical, because there was no true cure for it. Like the Cruciatus, it existed solely in his mind and had the potential to twist his intelligence into insanity. But recollections of his past deeds were not cured by the Liquefiere Potion. The only cure for him lay in a spell he would never willingly submit to, were he even capable of casting it on himself. And that reminded him. He would have to go to Ollivander's soon, to purchase a new wand. And after that, he would have to find some way to repay Malfoy for breaking his previous wand.

He watched Minerva marking parchment, and found a smile buried deep within himself. At the very least, he would not be bothered with grading homework for another three weeks. With that happy thought firmly fixed in his mind, he let himself drift to sleep. The last sound he heard was Minerva's disgruntled sigh.

"Good afternoon, Professor Snape," Hermione said the next day, setting her book-bag down against the legs of the small desk she'd set up in the hospital wing. "How are you feeling today?"

She sounded chipper to his ears, which told him that she'd likely gotten a test back. He wondered if she intended to attempt conversation every day, but decided after a moment that it would be a welcome change from the silence in which he'd spent the first several days. "I am tired," he said, ignoring the sulky sound to his voice. How someone could spend nine hours cooped up with a talkative Sybil Trelawney and remain sane, let alone cheerful, was beyond him.

"Professor Trelawney said you've been having a bad day," Hermione noted, getting a cup of water for each of them. "Did she read that in your palm, or did she actually pay attention to how you're feeling?" She handed Snape his cup, and he gazed at the clear liquid inside, thoughtful. She sounded bitter to his ears.

He considered his answer for several minutes before finally speaking. "I suspect it was a case of both. I have not been having the best of times today, and likely Professor Trelawney emphasized the bad in order to make it sound more traumatic." A tiny snort of amusement answered his observation. He watched her carefully, but she seemed more comfortable with him than she had before, not less. Deciding to test how comfortable she was, and at the same time inform her of the sorts of issues he would be dealing with for the next three weeks, he went more into detail about the happenings of the day. "Madam Pomfrey has determined that many of my vital organs began to liquefy before she could administer the counter-potion. I shall be bedridden for a good portion of the next month, and even when not bedridden, I shall be confined to the hospital wing." Hermione nodded. "Madam Pomfrey will be removing the portions of my organs which are too rotted to survive, and aiding me in regrowing new portions."

The bushy-headed student swallowed in disgust, but nodded once more. "Of course. Is there anything I can do to help you during that time?" she asked formally, surprising him.

"No. It will be a long, slow, painful process, and the best thing you would be able to do is ensure that you are not around to be subjected to my less-than-amiable disposition after each session." Even as he said it, he noticed her chin firming and her eyes frowning.

"No one should be alone through that, Professor Snape." Seemingly, that was the final word on the matter, for she quickly changed the subject in order to keep him from convincing her that he was correct. They talked for a bit about the weather outside and the state of his potions classroom before she angled their discussion to the attack again.

"You said that Death Eaters didn't exactly attack you." Her words were short and to the point, taking him completely off-guard. He didn't answer as she continued. "Did you submit to them, then? Is that what happened?"

"It very much sounds to me as though you have a scene in your mind, Miss Granger, that you believe happened. Who am I to discount the validity of your imagination?" She scowled at him.

"It's not a question of my imagination, Professor," she countered angrily. "It's a matter of what really happened! Did they threaten you? Do you know who they were?"

"What do you intend to do with this information, Miss Granger? Take it to the Ministry of Magic? I assure you that they already know about it. Tell Misters Potter and Weasley? What right do they have to knowledge of my private life?" He took some rather sadistic satisfaction from the idea that she waffled over the answers. Before she could do more than stammer, however, he continued. "Or perhaps you had a less noble goal, Miss Granger. Could that be it?"

"I had no goals for the information, Professor!" she exploded.

"You merely wish to know everything about me," he drawled sardonically. "Whatever you may believe about our situation, I can assure you that you are still nothing more than a student here, and I am your teacher. You have no right to information about my private life, and I have no interest in providing you with said information. I suggest you let the subject lie."

She stalked to a window, staring out at the school grounds as he watched her. She was very deliberately controlling her breathing – trying to get herself back under control, he suspected. "Miss Granger," he said, after several minutes of silence. Her head twitched slightly, the only sign that she'd heard him. "I assure you that your sulking will no more induce me to tell you of my life than your temper tantrum did." He gleaned a dark delight from the way her shoulders stiffened. The rest of the afternoon passed without a word between them.

A week passed in the heavy silence between Snape and Hermione. He was unwilling to allow her to question him further, and she was unwilling to let the subject drop entirely. And so they focused on their own pursuits, both of them reading quietly each day. Snape noticed that Hermione was now focusing her studies on the Cruciatus. Apparently, the few lessons she had experienced under Crouch's questionable tutelage had not been enough for her. She was researching not only the curse, but also any documentation on what it felt like. He wondered, vaguely, if she would ever overcome her hurt long enough to ask him for his own interpretation of the spell.

It took her precisely a week to break the silence. He counted the days, marking them off on an internal calendar. And when she did break the silence, her words were blunt and to the point. "What did it feel like?"

No need for her to specify what 'it' was. They both knew she was referring to the Cruciatus. He was silent for several moments, trying to decide just how to properly describe the spell. He never once considered not telling her. It was not a private reaction, and he was certainly one of the very few people in the world to have survived the spell for such a duration. Besides, he admired a quick mind when its owner wasn't making a nuisance of herself in his class. "It is painful," he finally began slowly, ignoring the annoyed look that crossed her face at his rather inane remark. "It begins as a purely mental pain, somewhat equivalent to a migraine. From there, however, it progresses down the body, never quite in one spot, although it gives a fleeting phantom sensation of being linked to the body. Occasionally, there is the desire to cause more pain in oneself," he noted absently, focused inward as he tried to recall exactly what he had experienced. "That desire comes from the idea that one pain will temporarily make you forget another. There are some cases where victims have been known to break their own bones in an attempt to release themselves from the agony."

"You didn't, though," Hermione noted blandly, sounding far less horrified than he had expected. He looked at her sharply. "I saw the wounds, and I was there while Madam Pomfrey ministered to you. The bones you broke . . . the only ones that would've been easy for you to break yourself happened after the Petrificus Totalus spell."

"My toes would have been rather easy for me to break, Miss Granger, but you are correct. The Liquefiere Potion took care of that. Having been subjected to the Dark Arts on more than one occasion in the past, I can assure you that I have a rather remarkable strength of will where they are concerned. You may chalk it up to a combination of determination and familiarity."

"Determination," she said, smiling slightly despite his scowl. "That's a Gryffindor trait." Her words were obviously meant to goad him. He could certainly see no other reason for such a statement.

"In actuality, Miss Granger, the trait of determination traditionally goes to Hufflepuffs. I believe Gryffindors are graced with blind and unswerving loyalty, no matter how foolish the person to whom you are loyal."

She flinched at his summation of her house. "Well, what about Slytherins then? What's their notable trait?" She paused just long enough to allow him to begin to speak, then interrupted before he'd had a chance to do more than open his mouth. "Is it your predilection for the Dark Arts?"

Her words were a clear challenge, and one he could not easily ignore, despite his sincere wishes not to become embroiled in a House battle before dinner. "No, Miss Granger. Despite the rather faulty analysis of Misters Potter and Weasley, our house has no more preference for the Dark Arts than any other Hogwarts house. For the most part, the trait that the Sorting Hat looks for within a person is pragmaticism. We are realists, Miss Granger."

"Is that why you didn't give up and let the Cruciatus take you, Professor Snape?" Her quiet words surprised him. Clearly she'd taken his little speech to heart. He wondered what Potter and Weasley were going to say when she defended Slytherin House the next time they mocked Malfoy.

"No, Miss Granger. I did not give up simply because I cannot give up. It is not within my person to simply give in and let madness overtake me." Immediately, he was regretting the candor with which he had responded. He shook his head and closed his eyes, attempting to signal that the conversation was at an end, but she wouldn't accept such a subtle hint.

"Professor Snape? Did you really expect to make it to the hospital wing in time?"

Her words cut to the quick. Over the last week he had examined and re-examined his motives for the potion, and found them lacking. It would have meant an extremely painful but far quicker death than the one he'd been promised by the curse, and it had given him the illusion that he was attempting to save his life rather than commit suicide. But was it real? Had he truly believed that he would survive? Had he given up without even knowing? "Yes, Miss Granger," he said finally, though he knew that he was lying to her. He did not know for certain at all. "I actually expected to make it here in time to be cured. As it seems I needed the help, I am in your debt for aiding me." The last words he said grudgingly. In her debt, yes, but that didn't mean he had to like the idea.

She shook her head. "No. It's something anyone should have done for you, no matter what their relationship to you is. It's just . . . the right thing."

He smirked at her. "That is a very Gryffindor sentiment, Miss Granger. And I assure you, I have absolutely no interest in any more Gryffindor sentimentality. Please refrain from such remarks in the future."

She scowled at him, sitting down. "What other Dark Arts have you been subjected to?"

He blinked, sitting up. The move was a foolhardy one, as his stomach immediately began protesting. Grabbing the basin by the side of his bed and relieving his stomach of the acids that had harmed it so badly, he looked up at her. The nearly-dry retching had been a painful, long event, and she stood before him holding a wet washcloth. Silently, he took it, using it to cool his head and face before he wiped his mouth. "Miss Granger, that part of my life is not currently open to inspection. Do you have a question I am willing to answer, or are you merely trying to pass the time by dissecting my life?"

"I want to understand you, Professor," she admitted too easily. "I want to understand how you managed to gain enough control over the Dark Arts to deal with them so easily, and why you did it. I just . . . want to understand everything." Her plaintive words reminded him unpleasantly of his adolescence, when it seemed to him that knowledge was everything.

"Yes, I imagine you would," he agreed grudgingly. "Like most natural scholars, Miss Granger, you simply cannot conceive of remaining in ignorance." He ignored the smile that blossomed on her face at the words 'natural scholar'. "However, I regret to inform you that in this case, your curiosity will go unsatisfied. I have no intention of describing my existence so that you may study it. As to that, Miss Granger, I would further state that your questions border on impertinence, and suggest that keep them to yourself in the future, lest you discover points removed from Gryffindor house."

He watched her eyes widen, and his own narrowed. "What is it, Miss Granger? What completely out of character statement have I just made that requires you to gawp?"

She shook herself out of the stunned silence. "You warned me before you took points. And . . . you actually sounded somewhat sorry that you wouldn't tell me everything," she answered promptly. "You're not usually so charitable."

Cursing wizards of ages past, he frowned deeply at her. The knowledge that he was not a nice man was nothing new, and no longer bothered him. But the fact that he had let his cruel façade slip for a single moment, when he believed he could see even a trace of his ancient past in her, angered him deeply. He considered explaining himself before deciding that it would be foolhardy at best. "Then I would suggest that you stop trying my patience, Miss Granger."

He lay back, closing his eyes. After another moment, he heard her move to her little desk, sitting down and opening a book. Satisfied that she would not bother him again, he let himself slide into oblivion.

The next week heralded the recovery of his mobility. Madam Pomfrey let him do many things for himself now, and his three bed-sitters became less and less useful as the week wore on. Indeed, he managed to get rid of Trelawney entirely by snarking at her once too often. McGonagall was much more stubborn than that, but he didn't mind her presence as much. The only one whose presence confused him was Miss Granger. He couldn't quite figure out her motive. Part of him wanted to question her, but most of him wanted to keep his cruel, irritable persona in place – so he did nothing.

She didn't offer up any explanations, either. Day after day, she sat and studied, or they made pointless small talk, or he explained something. He found himself explaining a great deal to her about her classes, both Potions and Defense against the Dark Arts. He even managed a passable conversation with her about Charms. Transfiguration was easy. For many years, he'd considered Minerva one of the very few friends he had, and they often 'talked shop' together over dinner or a late-night brandy.

Toward the end of the third week, after she'd accompanied him on a walk around the whole of the hospital wing, Hermione looked at him worriedly. "Professor Snape?" she asked, tapping her pencil against the desk. "How early did you begin thinking about what you wanted to do in life? I mean . . . how early did you know that you wanted to be a Potion Master?" He raised an eyebrow, wondering when he had invited the exploration into his own life. "What, precisely, are you asking me, Miss Granger?" he tried, hoping for an explanation of what had brought about the question. She didn't disappoint him.

"It's just, I've been trying to think of what I'm going to do. I know it's early for that. I've got two whole years left. But Ron and Harry don't seem to have any ideas either, and I've been looking at what I'm good at. What good is arithmancy really? I mean, I'm decent at other things, but it's arithmancy that I really like. What else can I possibly do?"

He considered for a long minute, then sighed. "You may find, Miss Granger, that your tastes this year are not your tastes next year. I suggest you wait until the end of your sixth year before you worry about such things. I assure you that you will still have plenty of time to fret and fume over the troubles of choosing a life path. But for now, the best thing is merely to wait."

She looked upset at first, but as his words slowly filtered in, her face began to relax. He was right, she thought easily. She could wait. There was no great rush to decide what to do with her life. She could handle the frustration if it meant choosing the right thing in the long run. Unexpectedly, her face blossomed into a smile, and she almost thanked him.

He waved the gratitude away before she could begin to vocalize it, however, frowning at her. "Do not thank me, Miss Granger. I assure you that I did not suggest the wait out of the goodness of my heart. I find it very foolish that you are thinking of such things so early. Tastes and people change, and you should not be so swift to pigeonhole yourself into something that you only moderately enjoy. It is far better to have a job that you enjoy, for then you will be willing to do the work."

She narrowed her eyes at him, wondering. "Does that mean that you enjoy teaching, Professor Snape?"

Mentally, he cursed her quick mind. "Yes, Miss Granger. I enjoy teaching competent students. Even so, I am willing to put up with the dunderheads better known as your house mates." His dry sarcasm hurt her, he could tell. But she forced the feelings down, swallowing them angrily. He had to admit that it felt good to pull the carpet out from under her just as she was beginning to relax around him.

"I guess I'm simply surprised, Professor, because you're such an abysmal teacher." She'd grown claws, he chuckled inwardly. And she wasn't afraid to use them any longer. Would she be so quick to speak up once they were outside the hospital wing?

"It is obvious that you haven't managed to piece into play my secondary teachings, then, Miss Granger." Oh, how he loved the cold play of words back and forth. It would rid him of the emotional toxicity within his mind, would allow him to handle life with the same snarky aplomb that he always had. There was nothing better in life than a quick bit of verbal maliciousness.

"Your second . . ." she trailed off, thinking. Knowing that the look on her face meant she'd been taking her own sweet time thinking over her answer, he returned to the book Pomfrey had supplied. It was a poor choice, by far, but as she'd said that it had been left by a student, he supposed he didn't really have many options. He did wish, however, that he wasn't reading an 'action' book where the author seemed to casually place himself in a short passage of the book.

He'd read a good thirty pages before a movement in his peripheral vision pulled him out of the fiction. Hermione was regarding him thoughtfully. "You're trying to prepare us for the real world, aren't you?" she asked softly.

He scowled at her. "Surely, Miss Granger, you do not need everything spelled out for you. Your conjectures will stay precisely that – conjectures – until such time as I am ready to reveal my secrets to the world." The words oozed sarcasm, but she wasn't put off at all. How much more frustrating could she possibly get, he wondered?

"Seriously, though," she murmured. "That has to be it. You're trying to prepare us for the real world in the only way you know how. You know that there are going to be people out there who hate us and try to hurt us, and you're hoping to get us ready for it, so that we won't be destroyed when it does happen!"

She stopped when he snorted. "Miss Granger, your opinion of me is nothing short of ludicrous. When have I ever done something so charity-minded? I assure you that you are pursuing a pointless consideration, and I suggest that you rectify the mistake."

To his annoyance, she merely grinned at him and nodded. "I'll go to my studies now, Professor," she assured him blandly, settling down at the small desk with a new book.

“I assure you, Minerva, I am perfectly capable of handling this on my own,” Snape bit out, glaring daggers at his fellow professor. She smiled quietly, hovering close behind him as he walked down the dungeon hall, his walking stick clicking against the stone floor.

“Of course you are, Severus.” Her placation served only to make his mood even fouler, and he snarled at her. She knew from long experience that a Severus Snape who was not wholly independent was apt to snarl at everyone, even Albus Dumbledore, so she thought nothing of it. “It's very good to see you up and about again.” Her words were met with yet another snarl, but he continued the walk.

“Madam Pomfrey demanded you hover, didn't she?” he asked irritably, his walking stick clicking more rapidly now, and his steps speeding slightly. He stumbled occasionally, but Minerva let that pass, reaching for him only if he seemed unable to catch himself in time. “Otherwise you might have respected my wishes by now. Damned meddling woman,” he grumbled.

“I notice that you've grown closer to Miss Granger,” Minerva said, drawing his mind away from his weakened state. She was surprised at the scowl he turned on her.

“Are you insinuating something, Professor McGonagall?” he asked archly. She shook her head, and he continued. “Unlike you, I have no wish for a teacher's pet. My reasons for explaining potions to her are merely the result of a bored mind attacking the closest target. We are not now, nor will we ever be, close.”

“You make it sound like it's a bad thing, Severus. Why not befriend some of your students? Albus told me you're no longer our spy.”

“I do not befriend anyone, Minerva,” he said, loosening up slightly. “And no one befriends me. It would not do to be companionable with an ex-Death Eater, after all,” he noted bitterly. “Regardless of the circumstances in which he found himself serving Voldemort.” His left hand flexed into a fist, and he held the arm close to his body protectively. When Minerva put a hand over his forearm, he flinched.

“Severus, not all of us are so unforgiving. Couldn't you take a chance on us? Yes, there will be people who will see the Mark and brand you evil, but there are also those of us who understand . . .”

“You will never understand, Minerva,” Snape said viciously, jerking out of her grasp and heading hurriedly for the hospital wing. “I grow weary of this entire conversation. Perhaps next time you must accompany me on such an outing, you will do it with your mouth shut.”

“Madam Pomfrey tells me this will be your last night in the hospital wing,” Hermione said, setting down her knapsack. Snape nodded, quiet. “I imagine you must be rather anxious to get back to the dungeons, aren't you? I mean, it is your home, isn't it?”

“Yes, Miss Granger,” he said wearily, tired of her never-ending questions and assumptions. “It is, indeed, my home, and I shall definitely look forward to spending tomorrow evening there. I am also long past the need for a guardian. Please take yourself elsewhere and give me a night of relaxation.”

“What about what happened a month ago? Will it happen again?” Her piercing eyes stared at him, sizing him up. He frowned, not entirely certain what she was speaking of, and told her that. “This,” she answered, grabbing his left wrist before he could pull away and shoving the robe sleeve up. Her hand stopped as a tiny portion of the Dark Mark was revealed. Shaking with sudden fear, she pushed the sleeve up farther, then farther still.

Snape was pinned to where he lay, unable to do anything to stop her. The full horror of what she was about to see, of the accusing look she would be shortly leveling against him, held him stone still. He could feel her fingers sliding across his skin, over the slight raise of the Dark Mark. The still-liquid ink there pulsed at the touch, a fluid corruption held inside his body. He winced at the movement, barely able to breathe. He hated the sight of it, hated the way others reacted to it. The feeling of impending doom was the same each time someone discovered it.

Hermione looked up at him, then down at the Dark Mark again. Gently, she drew the robe-sleeve back down again, covering the mark and revealing only the mostly-healed scab on his wrist. He'd forgotten it even existed. “Why did you do this?” she asked gently. “Were you trying to kill yourself?”

“No, of course not,” he scowled. “The Liquefiere potion requires blood. It is difficult to make a proper incision when one's body is wracked with pain. My hand slipped, and the cut lengthened.”

“Oh,” she said, blushing. “I just assumed . . . I mean, I guessed . . . I wasn't sure if you were trying to kill yourself. I thought that was why the Headmaster asked me to stay with you, why he thought you would need 'round the clock care.”

“Perhaps he did,” Snape acknowledged, finally pulling his arm free. “You may ask about it,” he said abruptly, startling her. He didn't have to explain what she was to ask about. The Dark Mark had burned into both their minds.

She sucked in a breath, looking up at him. Her eyes were young and horribly innocent, he noticed distantly. “I suppose it would be pointless to ask why you have it,” she said. Since she hadn't asked a question, he ignored her. “Would you tell me whether it was by choice, at least?”

He shook his head. “You may ask about the properties of the Dark Mark. My personal life is beside the point.” His words came out quiet but harsh, a reminder of the line between them. She wasn't privy to his private life, and she wasn't privy to his reasons for the Dark Mark. He had to disabuse her of the notion that she had some right to this information.

“What is it like?” she asked, after a bit of thought. “I felt it move. Is it alive somehow?”

“No, Miss Granger. The Dark Mark is hardly a parasite. It is a corruption of innocence. Its ingredients number among the most vile substances known to wizards. And to forestall your next question, no, I will not tell you what those ingredients are. However, it is, at heart, a partial potion.”

“Partial potion?” she blinked, the question of ingredients forgotten. “I don't understand.”

“When combined with another potion, it acts as a Portkey. The destination is determined by the blood in the potion.” At her wide eyes, he nodded. “Yes, Miss Granger. One of the active ingredients is blood. In this case, it was Voldemort's blood.”

“I've read about those,” she said excitedly, breaking into his explanation. “There are hundreds of different recipes, depending on what precisely you want it to do and how you want it to look.”

“If I may continue, Miss Granger?” Snape growled, and Hermione fell silent, nodding. “Good. In this case, the Dark Mark serves as a painful reminder to those who serve Voldemort. It is capable of imparting extreme agony to the one who bears the mark. The only way to be rid of it is to drink the correct potion while slicing your arm deeply enough to let the ink run out. Ultimately, it is something I suppose I shall have to do.”

“Then . . . you aren't loyal to Voldemort?” Hermione asked softly. “I mean, I assumed that . . .”

“Your assumptions are, once again, wrong. Will you never learn?” She flinched, and he smiled grimly. “I am not loyal to Voldemort. Beyond that, you will have to discuss with the wall, as I will tell you nothing more. I highly recommend you do not discuss this with anyone else, Miss Granger. I am not a man to cross.”

She thought about that for a time, then asked, “Did Voldemort find out that you weren’t loyal? Is he punishing you for it?”

She was entirely too intelligent for her own good, Snape decided frustratedly. “Yes, Miss Granger. Voldemort discovered my betrayal and punished me. Is there anything else you feel you must know, or may I finally get some sleep?”

Hermione moved away, pulling out paper and a pencil as he settled back in the hospital bed. One more night of this horrible place. He could handle that.

Snape set the knife on his desk, carefully aligning it to the wand. Although such details were unnecessary for the actual magic, they helped him calm his mind. The process was going to be difficult, dangerous, and painful, and though he would definitely survive it, by the end he knew he would wish that he hadn’t. Moving to the cauldron, he drew out a ladle-full of the potion inside, carefully pouring it into a vial that he then placed directly above the knife. He wondered how upset Madam Pomfrey would be that he hadn’t waited longer to let his strength fully return before he attempted to eradicate the mark from his arm. But he simply could not bear to have that daily reminder of the worst time of his life.

He hadn’t been entirely honest with Miss Granger, either. He sighed wryly at the thought of what she would do with the proper information. Would she research it until she found out how to create the necessary ink to link herself to Potter and Weasley? He couldn’t take the risk. And so he’d lied about a number of things, with just enough truth thrown in there to make it sound believable.

He did have to cut his arm to ribbons. In fact, he would be forced to outline the mark with deep cuts. He would forever bear the scar, of course. Such a dark curse could not be healed without a stain on his soul and a blemish on his body. But the potion he’d use would not be drunk. Instead, he would pour it over the wounds, forcing the ink to leave his body.

He sat down, staring at the marred desktop for a long minute before he began. He cut his robe-sleeve, knowing it would be ruined anyway. It was the reason he’d chosen the worst of all his work robes. The sleeve fell away, revealing pale skin and a soft-grey mark that shifted in time with his pulse. Grabbing a stick of wood wrapped in leather, he bit down, then began the slow process of outlining the mark.

As though the mark could sense what he was planning, it began to ache unbearably, forcing him to stop for a few minutes. When he finally felt able to go on, he continued the outlining. The knife cuts got deeper as he fought to ignore the pain. His whole life had been one pain after another, and it was going to end this time.

Once the slicing was finished, he picked up the vial, swirling the contents slightly so that all the ingredients would come out at once. Then he poured, carefully filling each line with the liquid. It burned horribly, the small amount of sulfuric acid in the potion burning away at his skin. The black ink of the Dark Mark oozed slowly from his arm. He could feel the potion purifying him, saving him. When the vial was empty, he fell forward, labored breathing dragged out of him around the bit inside his mouth. He felt his teeth sink into the leather. He felt his sweat slide down his skin like a waterfall. It hurt so very much.

He screamed, the sound catching in the back of his throat. Most of the noise emerged half-strangled, and the rest stayed bouncing inside the stone walls of his workroom. He slammed his arm down on the table, somehow thinking that might stop the pain. But it didn’t.

The flowing blood and oozing ink finally slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether. As the wounds finally closed, the pain lessened to a dull, persistent ache. He knew that he would forever feel faint pulses of pain in that arm, a testament to the length of time he’d spent as a Death Eater. He moved, discovering that somewhere along the way, he’d placed his cheek against the cool wood of the desktop, closing his eyes as though he could blind himself to the mark.

The black slime covered the top of the desk, barely fifteen centimeters from his nose. He stared at it for a long minute, then sighed, rising. He ladled out another cup of the painful potion, carrying it over to the tabletop and pouring it on the ink. Everywhere the acid touched the ink, it smoked and faded to ashes. He would have to burn the table, but that could wait. The ink had been taken care of, and all Snape could think about was his bed. He needed sleep desperately. And he needed to think of what he would tell Albus, when it came down to it.

Crawling onto the soft mattress, Snape closed his eyes, whimpering as the dreams quickly overtook him. He would never be entirely free of the mark.