"Miserable," she said.   One word that shortened months of slow creeping pain, exhaustion, and endless visits to St. Mungo's into three syllables.  She was rare.  So rare. She'd done most of the research herself after they sent her away with endless potions and bromides that didn't work.  An orphan disease, the Healer had said when she'd confirmed Hermione's work.  Most people died because, without your mate, you did, and trying to find your mate was a fool's errand.  There was no cure, only ways to alleviate the pain.  The Healer had almost cried when she'd confirmed the verdict.  No one likes to tell a young, vibrant woman that she's dying.  