Hello! This is one of those post DH stories that I've written because I sort of wish Snape had survived. Please do not be fooled by the main characters. This is not a shipping fic, and the two characters mentioned in the description do not indicate any type of romantic relationship. They just happen to be the two main characters. I hope you enjoy! If you have comments and suggestions, please hop over to the feedback thread and let me know! Thanks!

Disclaimer: I am not JKR. I do not own Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, or Severus Snape. This fic is written purely for entertainment purposes, and I am receiving absolutely nothing from writing it. The very first bit is taken directly from the last chapter of Deathly Hallows.

When Mourning Dawns

By passerby

“I’m putting the Elder Wand,” he told Dumbledore, who was watching him with enormous affection and admiration, “back where it came from. It can stay there. If I die a natural death like Ignotus, its power will be broken, won’t it? The previous master will never have been defeated. That’ll be the end of it.”

Dumbledore nodded. They smiled at each other.

“Are you sure?” said Ron. There was the faintest trace of longing in his voice as he looked at the Elder Wand.

“I think Harry’s right,” said Hermione quietly.

“That wand’s more trouble that it’s worth,” said Harry. “And quite honestly,” he turned away from the painted portraits, thinking now only of the four-poster bed lying waiting for him in Gryffindor Tower, and wondering whether Kreacher might bring him a sandwich there, “I’ve had enough trouble for a lifetime.”

***
Hermione shuffled her feet a bit nervously as she and Ron waited by the toppled gargoyle for Harry to say goodbye to Dumbledore. She was so tired. Ron’s expression was a bit blank, the shock of their adventure falling on him afresh as he undoubtedly thought about his loss. Hermione felt horribly for him, but she could offer him little for comfort at the moment, feeling so desperately tired as she was. Harry emerged with a smile etched on his exhausted face.

“What now?” Ron asked.

“I’m going to go put the wand back,” Harry told them as he looked down at the wand in his hands. “Get it out of the way.”

“Do you want us to come?” Ron asked, causing Hermione a good deal of discomfort. She wasn’t particularly in the mood to travel to Dumbledore’s grave. She would go, of course, if Harry asked her, but she felt a sudden desperation to be by herself.

“No, you don’t have to,” Harry told them to her relief. “You should go back to your family,” he said pointedly to Ron.

Ron’s face fell at the reminder. It was almost as if he didn’t have to acknowledge it had Harry not said it. “Yeah,” he muttered. “They’ll need to see me.”

Harry paused as if about to say something more, but instead he nodded and turned away. Hermione and Ron watched him until he was out of their view, off to return the Elder Wand where he thought it rightfully belonged.

“Are you coming?” Ron asked, sounding a tad uncertain.

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment before answering, “No, Ron. Your family probably needs you to themselves right now. I don’t want to intrude.”

“Will you be okay?” he asked.

Tears burned her eyes, though she had no idea why. “Yeah. I’ll be fine. I’ll meet you in the Great Hall in a bit.”

He leaned forward and hugged her lightly, causing her stomach to flutter with unfounded nerves, and he left quietly, his shoulders hunched and his eyes downcast.

Hermione wiped at her eyes as she watched him leave and felt guilty at not wanting to join him. She could hear the cries of joy and sorrow from the Great Hall as people gathered to grieve those who had been lost and to rejoice over their final victory. She knew that what they all wanted and needed at this moment was Harry Potter, but she didn’t know how long he would take to return the wand. She didn’t feel any inclination to wait to find out.

Somehow, she found her feet plodding slowly along the corridors of the castle, not heading in any distinct direction. She silently observed the injured and the dead being carried away from rooms by their friends and family. She listened to the indistinct whispers and felt the palpable excitement in the air. She was a part of this victory, yet she felt so far removed.

She was tired. Physically, her bones ached and her limbs screamed for sleep. Mentally, she could find no solace in the company of her friends, and her parents were so far from her – not even knowing she was their daughter. Even if they were closer, they could hardly understand what she’d been through once she altered their memory properly.

Everything had changed, as she knew it had to, in the blink of an eye; in the space of one well-aimed defensive spell that Harry had been warned against leaning on by Lupin. She gulped.

She made her way rather aimlessly to her old dormitory and plopped down on her old bed with a heavy sigh, not even noticing that it was not made; for no one had been there to sleep in it that year. The other two beds were neatly made, and the room looked rather the same as it did in the years when she had occupied it. The silence in the room was deafening, and she shut her eyes tightly to avoid the visions of her two roommates, Parvati and Lavender. Hermione sat up with a jolt. Lavender! The last time she’d seen Lavender alive was when that beast, Greyback, had attacked her. Hermione sobbed into the empty room. She didn’t recall Parvati being amongst the dead, but she hadn’t sought her out or even inquired about her. Hermione desperately hoped that she was all right.

Hermione wiped her nose on her singed sleeve as she sat on the edge of her bed, the room spinning. She tried to do a simple repairing spell on her robe, but she was too exhausted to perform even the simplest bit of magic. She tossed her wand away in frustration as her thoughts moved back to Lavender and Parvati. Had she hugged them in the Room of Requirement earlier? She could hardly remember; things had happened so quickly. Lavender had explained how the bathroom had come about in the Room of Requirement. Was that the last thing Hermione had ever heard her say? It was too much for her.

Fred, Colin, Lavender, Tonks, and Lupin: Those were just a few of those she knew who had perished in order to defeat Voldemort. Her eyes shot wide open as she remembered another that she doubted anyone had even thought of. After what Harry had told her, Hermione thought he should be moved where the rest of the dead were waiting for family or friends to take care of them. Not that he had any family or friends that she knew of, but it just wasn’t right to leave him where he was. The exhaustion of moments before was replaced by a surge of adrenaline.

Finally, feeling invigorated with new purpose, she gave up on the idea of sleep and quickly exited the room. Her fatigue would wait until she had at least seen to his body. It was midday, and the anti-Apparition charms had apparently been removed from the castle for Hermione witnessed witches and wizards coming and going out of thin air with ease. No one seemed to give her much attention as she sneaked out the entry doors and made her way to the Whomping Willow. It seemed unchanged from her earlier entrance with Ron and Harry, but she used her wand and a branch to tap the knot just in case. The tree didn’t seem to be aware of any intrusion.

Hermione crawled quickly through the tunnel and made her way up the slope to the Shrieking Shack, shivering a bit with fear and wondering if she should have thought to bring someone with her. She knew she was being silly, though, and her desire to be alone outweighed any feelings of discomfort.

She entered the room from the tunnel and found him where he had fallen. The gruesome scene did little to help her unsettled stomach, yet she slowly went to the body on the floor and knelt beside it. The macabre scene brought tears to her eyes as she realized that his hands were settled at his throat, his dying actions had been to try to staunch the flow of blood. The poor man, so cold and unfeeling in life lay cold and unfeeling on the floor in front of her. She hoped that in death he could find some peace at last.

She reached out and touched his hands to see if she could move them to a more comfortable looking position. Her breath caught in her throat, and she gave a loud cry of surprise. His skin was still warm! She watched his chest very closely for a minute until she saw its almost imperceptible rise and fall. Severus Snape was still alive!


***

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Chapter 2

Hermione sat frozen on the floor next to Snape’s still form. What should she do? Obviously she should get some help, but something stopped her from leaving immediately to find someone. She shook herself out of her momentary stupor and bent to examine his wounds closely. Upon examination, she saw that his hands were pressing a mud-like substance into the gaping wounds, staunching the flow of blood as best as they could. She was suddenly very glad she hadn’t moved them for if she had, he surely would have begun bleeding profusely again. She sat back and watched him for a moment to make absolutely certain that she hadn’t imagined his breathing. She was, after all, beyond tired. It happened again and she stood. An irrational plan formed in her head, and she did not shove it aside. Instead, she decided to act upon it. She ran back through the tunnel, out of the entrance by the Whomping Willow, up the hill, and back inside the castle. She gathered her wits about her and quickly made her way to the Hospital Wing on the third floor, any lingering exhaustion she had felt before replaced forcibly by excitement.

It was crowded. Unbelievably crowded. Madam Pomfrey swooped from patient to patient, nursing broken bones, major gashes, missing limbs, and minor scrapes. Hermione noticed two other women in Healer uniforms and gathered that St. Mungos had sent much needed help. She stood in the entrance, not quite knowing where to turn.

Madam Pomfrey bustled up to her with her arms full of crisp linen. “Are you injured, Miss Granger? Let me have a look at you.”

Though she knew that her appearance probably looked otherwise, she answered, “No, Ma’am.” She wasn’t sure how to ask for what she wanted. She didn’t want anyone to suspect. “Would you mind if I took some bandages?”

Madam Pomfrey gave her a quick smile. “Supplies are over there,” she said, pointing to a bed in the corner near the entrance that had piles of bandages and other supplies. “Take what you need. I daresay we cannot fit everyone in here today.”

Hermione nodded her thanks and moved to the supplies. She didn’t quite know where to start. She grabbed several bandages, a clean sheet, a bottle of distilled water, some alcohol, several types of ointments, and a conservative amount of a few healing potions. She stuffed them into her small beaded bag that she dutifully carried with her and headed out of the Hospital Wing.

Hesitating for only a moment, Hermione quickly climbed the ever-changing stairs to the seventh floor. She ran down the corridor toward the Headmaster’s office. The poor gargoyle that guarded the entrance was still on its side.

“Do you mind if I go up again?” she asked it out of respect.

“Be my guest,” the gargoyle replied a bit sarcastically for a piece of stone.

Hermione climbed over him and went up the spiral stone staircase. The door at the top had been left open in Harry’s haste to return the Elder Wand, and it did not appear that any one had entered the room since. She walked to the desk and looked down at the Pensieve where Snape’s silvery memories still swam. Having never experienced a trip into someone else’s memories, Hermione could not deny that she was tempted to have a peek at them. Her sensibilities, however, refused to allow her to intrude upon another’s thoughts. Perhaps if he had been truly dead, she would not have felt so ethical. She picked up the fallen phial that she had earlier conjured for Harry, dipped her wand into the Pensieve, extracted a silvery thread of a memory, and placed it into the phial. After repeating the process a few times, she had collected all of Snape’s memories. She opened her bag and pulled out a bandage. She carefully wrapped the phial inside and secured it, then gently laid it in the bag.

She couldn’t say why she felt compelled to rescue these memories, but she knew that she had to keep them safe. Snape might not have even given them to Harry if he had not thought he was going to die. The least she could do was return them to their rightful owner before anyone else witnessed them.

She took a last look around the office. All of the portraits were empty; no doubt their occupants were wandering their other frames in search of news. With a sense of finality, she closed the door as she left and went back down the stairs.

“Thank you,” she said to the gargoyle as she climbed back over him.

On a whim, Hermione made her way to Slughorn’s classroom. She was not surprised to find it in a disarray of battle, and luckily enough, the door to his potions store had been blown away. She went in and searched through the once organized cabinets to find several ingredients that she thought might be useful. She located aconite, Murtlap essence, unicorn horn hair, and after much searching, she found Re’em blood. “Perfect,” she muttered to herself, and she carefully placed the items as best she could in her bag.

She found her way down to the Great Hall where families continued to gather. She did not see Harry, and she could not help but wonder what was taking him so long. Her face fell ashen for a moment as she considered the possibility that he had thought to retrieve Snape’s body. She forced herself to be calm as she saw the Weasleys across the room. Ron beckoned her over, and she could not ignore him. Not now. Her lips still burned with the force of his kisses.

“That was a short rest, Hermione. I didn’t expect to see you for hours,” he said as he hugged her tightly.

“I had trouble sleeping,” she told him. The Weasleys bewildered her a bit as she watched them. In shock, most certainly, but even with their horrible loss, they were not defeated by it. Even having just lost his twin, George offered her a small smile. “I am so sorry,” she said as a tear slipped down her cheek.

“Thank you, Hermione, dear,” Mrs. Weasley sniffed. “I was so worried about you!”

“Me?” Hermione choked out.

“Of course,” Mrs. Weasley said strongly. “You’re a part of the family!”

Ron turned a bit red at that pronouncement from his mother, but his arm found its way across Hermione’s shoulders. Hermione’s heart sank in that moment, and she did not pretend to understand it. She attributed it to emotional strain. The family began to speak more definitively about making arrangements for Fred. Should he have a private burial, or should he join the mass ceremony that was being considered for all of the fallen from the Battle for Hogwarts? Would he like to be buried with Lupin and Tonks, or should they use the family burial plot? Would Aunt Muriel understand?

Hermione could not wrap her mind around the conversation, and she found she had absolutely no desire to make plans that signified the end of a life. She lightly touched Ron’s arm. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“Sure,” he said and followed her outside the Great Hall.

“Ron, I don’t know quite how to say this,” she began. “I need to go.”

“I think we’re about done here. You can come back to the Burrow. Mum won’t mind.”

“No,” she responded quickly. “I don’t know, Ron. I think I just need a few days to myself.”

He shrugged his shoulders and scowled. Hermione was struck with just how insensitive she was being. “I’m so sorry, Ron. I know I should be here, and I want to be with you. It’s just. . . .”

“You don’t have to say it, Hermione. I understand. I’d like to go away, too. Be alone.”

“Oh, this is just coming out horribly!” She jammed her fists into her eyes to stop the tears that started to fall. Ron reached for her and held her close as she cried. Sobs of exhaustion and sorrow wracked her body.

“What I’m trying to say, Hermione, is that I think you should. You’ve been with Harry through the entire time of it, and I know you were glad to do it, but you haven’t had a moment to yourself.” He let her go. “Just promise me you’ll come to the funeral.”

She hiccupped and wiped her nose. “Of course I’ll be there. Thank you, Ron,” she said in a breath full of gratitude. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

Ron shrugged, “You’d do it for me. I know you would.”

“Here,” she told him as she offered him one of her silver stud earrings that she had just removed from her ear. He held it in his hand, looking at it with curiosity. She tapped it with her wand and tapped the other one still in her ear. “Just give it a tap when you need to talk to me, okay?”

“I’ll let you know about Fred.”

“The moment you know.”

Ron put the earring in his pocket, and Hermione had a fleeting thought that he might lose it. She told herself to trust him more, and she said nothing of it. “Tell Harry, will you?” she asked.

“You haven’t seen him?”

“No,” she admitted. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think I want to. I just need to get out of here.”

“He won’t be mad, Hermione.”

“I know,” she said, though she really didn’t know. If he had to stay and be with everyone, what right did she have to run away from it?

“I’ll tell him. He’s off with Kingsley. Everyone wants to see him,” Ron finished, offering a lopsided grin. They’d lived with Harry’s celebrity since they first knew him, and it didn’t seem that his fame would diminish in the foreseeable future.

She leaned into him then, wrapping her arms around his waist. He tipped her chin up and kissed her on the lips. The kiss was not tentative or uncertain, but it was light with sensitivity to her feelings. She smiled at him and wiped away more tears. She could do much worse than Ron Weasley. “Bye, Ron.” She turned and walked to the door of Hogwarts as Ron made his way back to his family.

***
A/N: I posted this chapter sooner than I probably would have otherwise, but I'm leaving for vacation and am not sure about internet availability while gone. I wanted to give those who are reading a little something to tide them over for the week. I'm vacationing with pepperimp (YAY), so hopefully we'll get a bit finished on "Hogsmeade", too. It's going to be a busy time! Thanks very much for reading, and if you feel inclined; I love feedback. Thanks to Laura and emma_weasley (love your avatar! I voted for him.) for leaving some for the last chapter!

Chapter 3

Hermione knelt once more by the still form of Severus Snape. She had checked his breathing and had made sure his body was still warm when she returned to the Shrieking Shack. Her mind screamed for her to go for get help, to tell someone that she had found him alive and that he needed care, but the rest of her did not listen. She looked down at him. The man was gravely injured, and she highly doubted that he would survive the day. However, she could not bring herself to call for help. She needed to do this on her own. Guilt poured into her as she realized the course of her thoughts. No one would care if this man didn’t survive. She was the only hope he had.

With her mind made up, she reached into her bag and took out three volumes. She quickly scanned the pages until she found what she was looking for in the second of the three: Apparition to an unknown place. In other instances, she’d known where it was she was Apparating to. In this instance, she didn’t even know if the place existed. Of course, Severus Snape must have a home. Surely he didn’t live year round at Hogwarts.

Hermione scanned over the passage a couple of times to get her mind around the concept and closed the book. She returned it to her bag along with any uncertainty she was feeling. If she was at all uncertain, she knew it wouldn’t work. Sometimes you just had to trust. Much like she had always somehow intrinsically trusted the man she was attempting to rescue.

Bemused, she sat with her legs crossed above Snape’s head. She placed her hands under his armpits and heaved his head into her lap, careful not to move his hands from his neck. It certainly wouldn’t do to have his wounds open up at the moment. She would deal with that when she got there, where ever there was.

Her lips repeated, “Snape’s house. Snape’s house. Snape’s house.” She closed her eyes and determined with all of her might, closing her mind to all other thoughts. She held tightly to Snape’s under arms as she experienced the all-too-familiar feeling of compression. In almost an instant, the compression ceased, and she sat on a dusty floor of a very small feeling, mildew smelling room. There seemed to be no windows, and her eyes could not adjust to the dark. A desperate sense of claustrophobia overwhelmed her. Even the Shrieking Shack let the light in through the dilapidated walls.

Snape groaned, and Hermione quickly lit the tip of her wand. The room was dusty and completely unkempt. Bookshelves lined the walls of the minuscule sitting room, and she noticed a thread-bare couch. A lamp hung from the ceiling, and Hermione wasted no time in lighting it. The candle-glow offered a muted light around the dim room. She quickly levitated Snape’s body to the couch and covered him with a blanket that she took from her bag. The mud-like substance remained fixed to his throat even as his hands slid away, and for that she was grateful. She was not yet prepared to deal with his wounds. She walked slowly around the room, taking in the neglected shelves full of books. She found a fissure around one shelf and pointed her wand at it. The bookshelf creaked slowly open at her bidding to reveal a set of narrow stairs.

With a backwards glance at Snape, she climbed the stairs and found herself in a bedroom. It was equally as dark, but with her wand illuminated, she could see a small bed and a side table along the opposite wall. To her left she found an elaborate cherry armoire that stood out brightly juxtaposed against its dank surrounding. She lit the lamp beside the bed and shuddered. The room felt just as depressing as the one before. She longed to explore the armoire which by its mere presence suggested fabulous secrets against the house in which it was placed. Ignoring that urge, she found a door along the wall to the right which she opened and went in to explore. She stepped into a smaller bedroom, if that was possible. It held an unkempt bed and nothing more. It looked about the size for a young child.

“What a dismal place,’ she muttered as she closed the door and went back down to the sitting room. “It certainly isn’t ideal.” She explored along the shelves again, hoping to find another door. She located one which opened to reveal a small kitchen with a dilapidated table. There was a small window that gave much needed light which the room drank up and absorbed as quickly as it entered. The stove looked operable, though she was a bit wary of looking in the pantry for food to cook upon it. Who knew how long it had been since Snape had stayed here. She could very well imagine the rodents that had invited themselves in to live. A cramped bathroom was nestled into the back of the kitchen. It was just large enough for a sink, a shower, and a toilet. A tarnished mirror decorated the sink, though she could barely make out her reflection in it.

Hermione went back through the door and sat in the armchair next to the sofa, tapping her wand against her cheek. She needed more light; that was certain. She pointed her wand to the bookshelves. “Fenestratum!” The bookshelf in front of her shrank, and a window appeared above it. She repeated the incantation around the room until she had four windows which let in an adequate amount of sunshine. Pleased, she then performed several spells to clean up the dust and repair the table. When it was cleaned to her satisfaction, she opened her bag and took out the items she had taken from the Hogwarts.

She didn’t know if he’d be able to swallow anything, so all of the draughts were useless. She picked up the Murtlap essence and spilled a bit of it into a bandage. It should sooth the wound and bring down the swelling. She sprinkled some powered unicorn horn onto it as well, thinking that it couldn’t hurt. She took out the distilled water and heated it with her wand. She dipped the bandage in it and waited until it boiled. The steam should also allow the ingredients to enter his lungs as he breathed in. She removed the bandage and dripped a few drops of Re’em blood onto it for strength. It was all guess work, as far as she was concerned. She knew the general properties of each ingredient she had taken, and she was hopeful that they would perform to her satisfaction once combined.

Very carefully, she chipped at the edges of the mud on Severus Snape’s throat. She laid it on the table in front of her. The wound was freely bleeding by the time she had removed the majority of the hardened substance. She was grateful that Snape seemed unconscious. She quickly wrapped the heated bandage around his neck, making sure the self-invented ointment was touching the wound.

She discarded most of the mud with a flick of her wand but saved a small portion to examine. “Specialis Revelio,” she whispered at it. Not that she was expecting anything, but she felt a keen disappointment when nothing happened. Impulsively, she added it to water and let it dissolve. She would look more closely at it later.

Snape stirred. His body started to convulse and his limbs twitched rapidly. Hermione’s hands flew to his bandage to hold it in place. She tried to whisper encouragement to him, but she did not know if it helped. She did not know if he could even hear her.

“Oh, please, Professor,’ she intoned. “Shh. Shh. It will be all right, I promise.” His body relaxed as she said this, and she laid her hand on his angular cheek. His face was burning up! The man was beyond feverish! She silently chided herself for not checking sooner. Of course there would be other effects from such a snake bite!

She quickly conjured cool water cloths and wiped them gently across Snape’s face. He murmured unintelligibly, and she felt such compassion for him in that moment; more than she’d felt for anything in such a long time. Tears were no strangers to her, and she shed them now with no desire to stop them. She choked out a whispered lullaby to the unconscious man before her as she cooled his face to the best of her ability as her tears freely ran as her body convulsed with desperate sobs until there was nothing left of her. Her former exhaustion returned with such vengeance that it dispensed from her all other thoughts than her fatigue, despair, and grief. Her body collapsed on the cold, unfeeling floor before her mind even registered that she was falling.

Hermione woke suddenly with a sense of alarm coursing through her body. It was pitch black, and she had no idea where she was. Panicked, she sat up quickly and felt around for her wand. As her fingers made contact with the willow, she remembered: Snape’s small and dreary home. The candles had long since burnt out, and the moon had not even thought of shining through the windows. She quickly replenished the candles with ever -burning ones, and she surveyed her surrounding again. Snape’s fever had broken, though she did not know if that had happened before or after she’d fallen asleep. She was grateful for it nonetheless. She reprimanded herself for falling asleep in the first place when his condition was so grave.

She stretched her legs by walking around the room, looking at the leather bound books in the shelves. At least she wouldn’t lack for reading material while she was here. Her back ached from having slept on the hard wood floor, and she determined not to spend another moment sleeping anywhere but in a bed. She marched up to Snape’s bedroom and tidied up. There wasn’t much to tidy, truth be told, and it took her little time. She conjured a window in this room and vowed to do the same in the smaller one attached to it. Hermione had no intention of occupying Severus Snape’s bed, but she wanted him to be as comfortable as possible. She again resisted the urge to dig through the drawers of the armoire and went into the second smaller bedroom. She lamented the fact that she would have to enter his room to get to the bathroom if the need should arise in the middle of the night. She decided to fix the problem by creating another access point to the stairs through the smaller room. When she finished, the stairs would split about three-fourths of the way up. The frame of the house creaked with the effort, but once finished, Hermione was pleased with the small home.

Hermione spent several minutes arranging lighting in the house to drive away the gloom, then she returned to her room. “Tergeo,” she said to the bed, and it was stripped of all grime. She would have liked to replace the mattress completely, but this would have to do. She dressed the bed in comfortable linens and a light comforter. She conjured a small table which fitted snuggly between the bed and the wall. She could probably enlarge the room, but she didn’t feel it was necessary. This would suit her perfectly.

Hermione took several things out of her bag and arranged them in the room. She found her pillow, a picture of Harry, Ron, and her, a couple of books she had been reading, and a parchment and quill set. She hung the picture on the wall, put the pillow on the bed, and placed the book and parchment on the table. She would have to find an Owlery eventually.

And Crookshanks! She was all of a sudden desperate to bring Crookshanks here. He would take care of the rodent problem and provide her with familiar company. He was at the Burrow now, no doubt chasing garden gnomes. She would send for him first thing in the morning.

Though the situation was stressful, Hermione already felt the tension leaving her as she relished being alone. She even felt the corners of her mouth creeping up into a smile.

In the kitchen, she set a kettle on the stove in the kitchen to boil. Severus couldn’t drink anything, but she felt the need for some chamomile tea. As she waited, she decided to move Snape into his bed.

She lifted his body and levitated it into his room, careful not to bump his head on anything. As she gingerly tucked the edges of the sheets around him, he stirred. His eyes opened just a fraction, and her breath caught in her throat. How would she explain herself to him? How would she tell him that she was not sending for help? How would she explain their presence in his house?

“Lily . . . .” he croaked. There was no strength in his voice and no understanding in his black eyes.

“No,” she whispered.

If there had been hope in him before, it certainly drained from him now. “My . . . memories. . . .” he coughed, his voice raspy.

Hermione’s mind raced to her bag where his memories were safely stored. Should she retrieve them now and offer them to him? Was he even talking about those memories? Perhaps he had amnesia.

“Do you know who you are?” she asked quietly, not even knowing what she was hoping for.

He closed his eyes slowly. “No,” he whispered feebly and faded back to his oblivion.

***

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Chapter 4

Dear Ron,

Thank you for understanding why I need the time away when I don’t even understand it. I feel like I left a part of myself in that tent as we went from place to place. I feel broken. I want to find myself again. I want to figure out who I am. Your support means everything to me, and I hope you know how much I care for you.

I purchased this owl earlier today. Her name is Hogmanay. Fitting, I think. You can send any reply you have with her. She’s rather gentle to me, though I’m told she isn’t much taken with men. Sorry if she bites on that count.

How are you? How is your family? My thoughts have been on George lately, and I hope you tell him I’m thinking of him. Any news on the funeral? I read in the Prophet that Hogwarts is holding a memorial service for all of those who fell there. I would like to go when they confirm a date. It said Harry is going to be the speaker. Poor Harry. I can’t imagine that he’d be ready for something like that.

I’d like to have Crookshanks. I don’t want you to worry, and I’m not quite ready to tell you where I am, but I’d feel better with him here. He’s not called a Familiar for nothing.

Please write to me soon.

Hermione

Hermione blew the ink on the parchment dry and folded the letter. She slid it easily into an envelope and addressed it to Ron. She picked up her quill again to pen another letter.

Dear Professor McGonagall,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am planning on attending the memorial service at Hogwarts, and I would like to meet with you to discuss some things that have been on my mind. If you are available, would you please let me know? I am very flexible as to the time, and I do hope that you will be able to meet with me.

Yours very sincerely,

Hermione J. Granger

She stared at the page. She had wanted to write so many things. She had wanted to inquire after her favorite professor; to make sure she was not hurt and that the battle scars were not deep. She had wanted to ask how Hogwarts was faring, if the castle had been repaired. She had wanted to tell her how grateful she was for all she had done for her over the years. She had wanted an avenue of comfort.

Hermione sealed the letter in another envelope and addressed it appropriately. She called Hogmanay to her, and the barred owl held out her light yellow leg. Hermione attached both of the letters to Hogmanay’s leg and held out a bit of a cookie in her hand which the owl took gently, the feathers around her beak tickling Hermione’s hand. “The first one goes to Ron Weasley at the Burrow, the second to Hogwarts.” Hogmanay blinked. Hermione opened the window in the kitchen, and with a great swoosh, the owl took wing.

That evening, Hogmanay returned with a reply from Ron. Hermione tore into the parchment after giving the owl a treat and letting her out to hunt and to fly freely.

Dear Hermione,
I’m glad you’re doing well. I just wanted you to know that the funeral for Fred will be in two days. If you can, please come early. Mum wants the entire family to gather for a while before. Thanks. Oh, Crookshanks is fine. You can pick him up when you come.

Yours,
Ron Weasley

“’I’m glad you’re doing well’?” Hermione read aloud. Did he not read her letter? She was anything but well! She took a deep breath. She could excuse his inattention, understanding the stress that he and his family were under with preparation for Fred’s funeral. She put the letter slowly down and sniffed, tears pooling in her eyes. She would go and be with Ron. Perhaps she would go earlier than he expected and surprise him. She owed him that much.

She walked up the stairs to check on Snape. He was exactly the same as she had left him. He wouldn’t even notice she was gone. She sat at the foot of his bed and rested her head in her hands. She stood up soon after, having decided that she would leave straight away for the Burrow. She’d spend three days with the Weasley’s and return following the funeral. A swell of relief flooded her as soon as she made her decision, and with new purpose she began to prepare for her brief journey.

***
Three days later, Hermione returned; sullen and spent. As far as funerals went, it wasn’t horrible. People were sad, yes, but there was also a fair bit of laughter that reminded everyone present just who Fred Weasley was. The service had lasted almost an hour. Several family members and friends had gotten up to say a few things about Fred. Hermione had had the most difficult time sitting through George’s and Lee Jordan’s speeches. They each broke down in the midst of their eulogies, and it had been painful to witness, knowing she couldn’t do a single thing to help them. They announced that they would continue on with the joke shop as Fred would have wanted, and they would be donating a portion of their sales of Weasley’s Wild-Fire Whiz-Bangs to the Reconstruction Fund for Families Effected by You-Know-Who in Fred’s memory.

Hermione had sat dutifully by Ron throughout the service, holding his hand and trying not to cry on his robes. He had been very stoic, just trying to get through. She thought he was quite brave. She had told him so, but he just laughed and offered Harry’s heroic deeds as a comparison. She had chided him then, telling him that there were all types of bravery. He had turned red then, so she figured she’d made her point.

The next morning, though, she had been itching to get away from the family. It was irrational, and she hated herself for not wanting to stay with them. Hermione had hung close to Ron and tried to avoid talking with Harry. He would know she was up to something, and she wasn’t willing to have him confront her about her activities just yet. Maybe never. Some friend she was.

Ron told her that he understood when she told him earlier in the morning that she needed to get back. How could he, though, when she barely understood herself? She stifled a sob as she lamented herself as the world’s worst girlfriend. It caught her off-guard as the realization came to her: Ron Weasley was too good for her.

Hermione watched Crookshanks as he slowly prowled close to the bookshelves, his ears slightly back and his tail rigid. He would eventually grow as comfortable here as he was elsewhere, and she suspected that he would find a nice community of rats to keep him busy. She walked slowly up the stairs and entered Snape’s bedroom, expecting to find that nothing had changed. Her stomach fluttered when she reached his bedside and found his black eyes looking at her. His hand weakly fluttered to his throat, and his eyes closed again. She grabbed his hand and held on to it as if it were a life-line to her.

“Please don’t lose hope, Professor,” she pleaded with a sob. Pulling herself together, she quickly changed his bandages and left his room. Perhaps he would be dead by morning, and she could fade away with him.

***

Hermione had been at Snape’s home for almost a week, caring for him and establishing a routine. Mostly, that routine consisted of delving into the books she found on his shelves and looking after her former professor. She spent hours upon hours with her feet tucked up underneath her, resting on the arm chair in the sitting room, reading the old and forgotten pages. She went out on occasion for walks after placing a Disillusionment Charm on herself though there was little need for the charm. It seemed as if the place was a ghost town. She did not dare to walk too far into the town, though she could usually hear activity in the distance and smell the unmistakable scent of burnt fish. Snape’s house sat at the end of a row of identical houses; one of several rows of identical houses. The rows all ended at a tall stone wall too tall to climb and too uninteresting to warrant consideration. Hermione could not imagine years of living in such a place, as if the very existence of the wall shouted at the inhabitants of the town that there was no where to go, and there was no one to want them if they happened to climb over. She could smell a river, but it was not a comforting smell. A mill’s tall chimney stood lofty and menacing as a sentry over the rows of houses. Her ventures typically ended shortly after they started as she much preferred to travel in her books than the unwelcoming demeanor of this outside world.

Snape was improving in some respects and failing in others. His fever had finally broken and not returned. He spent a few minutes awake every day, though he said nothing. He stared off into space, and she wondered if he even knew she was there. The bleeding from his neck still continued, and with the daily loss of blood, she feared for her patient.

With each new day, Hermione lost more of her despair. She didn’t feel ready to rejoin her comrades, but she was feeling less pessimistic and happier to be alive. She gave silent thanks to Snape for that. Caring for someone who needed her so desperately gave her the drive to carry on.

Hermione continued to be uncertain how much longer he could go on as he was, though. It was disheartening to think, but the man could not survive without some sort of sustenance, and he was neither eating nor drinking. She leaned her chin in her hands as she rested her elbows on the kitchen table where she had been reading. He needed someone with more experience in healing: Someone with more experience in life. She should be prepared for almost anything, really, with all of her travels around with Harry. She’d stood up to and survived some of the most terrifying situations, defied Voldemort himself, and she could not offer this man who had already suffered so much anything more than a cooling compress on his head when his fever returned. It made her angry with herself for being incapable to come up with a solution. She had poured over her books, and quite a number of Snape’s, to no avail.

Most disconcerting were the wounds themselves. The potions and ointments cleaned them out a bit, and the skin around the deep gashes was no longer the dangerous red of infection, but the wounds would not heal. Any irritation to them at all caused them to bleed freely again.

Nagini was the same snake who bit Mr. Weasley during her fifth year at Hogwarts, and she remembered that he had to take a Blood Replenishing potion. She could not get Snape to drink, and she could not force the potion between his lips. If she could just get to Mr. Weasley’s files at St. Mungo’s, she’d at least know how they eventually treated his wounds!

Her head shot up at the idea. If she, Ron, and Harry had been able to infiltrate the Ministry of Magic when Harry was being hunted, surely she should be able to get into a hospital. She rose from her chair and started pacing the kitchen. It only took five steps to cross from one end to the other.

“I’d need some Polyjuice Potion. I’m sure I have some in my bag still,” she muttered to herself as she paced. “A general sense of direction would be good. He was on the first floor, the Dai Llewellyn ward, I believe. Surely his records will be there.” She continued ticking such details off in her mind until she was at last satisfied with her plan. She would use another of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to distract a Healer, grab a bit of the hair, put it in the potion, and she would be ready. She didn’t feel the need to be too careful with her ruse as no one would be suspecting anything of the like.

She smiled and went up to check on Snape. To her surprise, he was staring at her as she entered his room.

“You’re awake again!” she gasped as she rushed to the bedside, his cold eyes tracking her as she came. “Let’s just see how your wounds are.” She noticed a swift intake of breath when she removed the bandages, and her hands shook with nerves. She silently chastised herself and told her hands to stop quaking. It was easier said than done.

Hermione made a tsking sound as she grabbed at a bottle by the bedside, knocking into others by it. The clinking of glass together was magnified in the silent room. She almost wished he would snap at her for her ineptitude rather than just stare at her with his eyes full of nothingness.

“I don’t know if this will pain you, but it’s got to be done. It’s a bit of Wound Cleaning Solution and a mixture of Re’em blood and Murtlap’s essence.” She smoothed the purple concoction on the fresh bandages and applied them as gently as possible to Snape’s throat.

Snape stiffened immediately and his face registered unmistakable pain. She was sorry, but it was the only thing she knew to do.

“The pain should stop shortly. The other ointments will take effect soon.” She stared at his face for a moment; his eyes were closed and his features pinched tightly from the sting the Wound Cleaning potion. “I think it’s really time for you to take in some Blood Replenishing Potion, as well. Can you swallow it, do you think?”

Snape gave one small, resigned nod. She seized the opportunity and conjured a small glass with a flick of her ever-ready wand. She took the potion from the bedside table where she kept them all in order and poured a measure of it in the glass. She helped Snape sit up slightly, propping a pillow under his back for support, and handed him the glass. He took two mouthfuls and swallowed with obvious discomfort, choking a bit as the bitter liquid ran down his damaged throat.

“Water,” he croaked in a hoarse whisper, closing his eyes.

“Oh, of course!” She flicked her wand again and handed a cool glass into his limp hand. This time she had to help him raise the glass to his lips for a drink. She saw the beginnings of moisture form in his eyes, and she felt ashamed for him. She turned her attention quickly elsewhere. He would despise himself for that display of weakness; she knew he would.

“I’m going to London for a bit,” she started to explain to him. “I’m going to go to St. Mungo’s to see what they treated Arthur Weasley’s wounds with a couple of years ago. I expect it was the same snake. Surely they’ve made notes in his records of his treatment.” Snape didn’t even appear to be listening. Perhaps he had gone back to sleep. “Your wounds are still open, you see, and we’ve got to close them up or you’ll die.”

She barely saw him move his head, but Snape nodded again. Whether it was in acknowledgement that she was going to leave for a bit or acceptance of his fate, she could only guess. He tried to lift his hand in effort to point to something, but Hermione was too distracted with her plan to understand what he wanted of her. She gently took his hand and slid it under his blanket.

“There now, Professor. I’ll only be gone a few hours, if all goes well.” She adjusted the pillow under his head, pulled the blankets up to fit him more snuggly, and refilled the glass of water on the table though she highly doubted he had strength enough to reach for it. With nothing else she could do for him, she turned and left.

Once in the sitting room, she retrieved her bag and searched it for the remaining Polyjuice Potion. Once she had the flask in hand, she tucked it inside her robes. Hermione also lifted from her bag a small phial of golden liquid that she had kept hidden in there, unused and unknown. She pulled out the bottle of Felix Felicis and played with it. If ever there was a time she would need luck, this was it. She took a tiny swallow and felt the warmth spread through her. The potion went into her robes with the other. She had a million doubts in her mind about what she was about to do, not to mention a million reasons not to do it at all. With a swallow of determination, however, she walked to the door, accidentally knocking into a bookshelf which caused two books to fall pages splayed on the floor. “So much for good luck,” she laughed to herself, resolving to pick them up when she returned. She went out of the house and down the cobbled street until she found a secluded enough area from where she could safely Apparate without the chance being seen by those who were not there to see her in the first place.

***

A/N: Thanks so much for reading. I realize that some of Hermione's insecurities are probably getting a bit tedious now, but there's some more action to come. Thanks for reading! Please review if you have a moment. It helps. Really. Feedback.

CHAPTER 5

Hermione sat in an alley, watching people come and go through the entrance to St. Mungo’s. Only those who knew it was there would be looking at the building. She pulled a Muggle newspaper up to hide her features, but she kept her target in her vision. She had seen several Healers coming and going throughout the morning, and Hermione hesitated because they all seemed to have purpose driving their steps. She felt immense guilt at the thought of taking a Healer away from some dying patient. She uncorked the phial of Felix Felicis and took a bigger swig. She felt her body warming, and she felt a smile play at the corners of her mouth. This plan wasn’t so bad after all!

As she peered over the top of her disguise, she saw a small woman moving with quick short steps, though she still moved slowly, making her way toward the entrance. She wore a Healer’s headpiece, but she seemed to be amiably strolling. This was her opportunity. Hermione stood up and felt in her pocket for the piece of Nosebleed Nougat. Suddenly, as she continued to watch her would-be victim, her determination fled from her. Hermione dropped the candy back into her pocket, knowing that it was the wrong course of action to take. The woman walked by her and entered the building unaware of the fate she so narrowly missed.

The thought had occurred to Hermione that she could have easily asked Mr. Weasley what they had treated him with, but that would induce several questions that she was not willing to answer. That would also mean another trip to The Burrow. She was enjoying her space and reveling in her solitude. No, she could not ask Mr. Weasley and risk having them discover her secret. For now, it was hers alone.

She took a steadying breath and entered St. Mungo’s with a thought of her new plan forming with each step she took up to the information desk, knowing that she would reach her destination with ease.

“May I help you, dear?” an elderly witch asked.

“I’m not sure. I don’t exactly know where to go,” Hermione admitted.

“Are you injured? Visiting?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” Hermione thought quickly. “I need to go to the Dai Llewellyn Ward.”

“Are you expected?”

“I’m not sure.” She figured it was better than an outright lie.

The witch rifled through some papers in front of her. “Ah, yes. The agency has sent you, then? They’re expecting some administration help there. We thought you’d be here earlier. No one enjoys the filing, do they?” She offered a smile to Hermione, and Hermione found herself genuinely smiling back, not quite believing her luck, and she silently thanked Felix Felicis.

“No, I’m sure they don’t,” she answered. The witch handed her a form to fill out and a guest badge to pin on her robes.

“Just sign and you can go right in.” Hermione took the offered quill and, without hesitation, signed “Lavender Patil” to the parchment in front of her. The reception witch smiled again and pointed Hermione in the right direction. “I’ll just let them know you’re on your way, Ms. Patil.”

Hermione thanked her and walked quickly down the corridor with a light step. Once she arrived at the ward, a Healer met her and showed her into a small room.

“Here is where the records are kept,” she said as she indicated the shelves of files that lined the walls. “With such an influx of patients from the war, we need to organize the sections into current patients, recent patients, and inactive patients. Alphabetically, please. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask.” The Healer left the room, and Hermione found herself exactly where she needed to be.

After she made certain the door was closed, she took out her wand and said, “Accio Mr. Weasley’s chart.” Immediately, a file flew from the end of one of the shelves and into her hands. She smiled.

Hermione quickly opened the chart and flipped through several pages of notes and questionnaires. Her hands shook with anticipation as she pulled the most recent additions to his file from the folder. She had a little trouble deciphering the handwritten notes as they were almost illegible.

Wounds continue to bleed freely at dressing changes. Venom unknown. Eager to try Muggle stitches. Muggle stitches unsuccessful and very painful. Extra Blood Replenishing Potion administered. Remains in good spirits. Venom unknown. Bottle of anti venom potion given to us by Albus Dumbledore. Wounds healed with unknown spell. Potion administered. Patient response acute. Patient released.

Hermione read and reread the notes with rapidly decreasing spirits. They did not mention the type of snake. They did not mention the process to produce the anti-venom. And what was this unknown spell? Who had performed it? She was outraged at the lack of details and disappointed that she had no more information than she had when she came in. She slammed the folder closed and tossed it on the floor.

She looked around the room and felt guilty that she had not been sent from an agency. She decided that she might as well do the job they were expecting of her while she was there. She quickly organized the shelves into the three categories the healer had requested and began rearranging the files. With the help of a spell or two, the entire process only took her two hours. She stood and examined her work, appreciating the neat, orderly files. When Hermione notified the Healer that she was finished, the Healer was very impressed and told Hermione that she would be requested from the agency again. Hermione thanked her and quickly made her way back to Snape’s house, back to her solitude, just as she felt the effects of the Felix Felicis potion wearing off.

She entered the door with her shoulders hunched in disappointment. Her foot kicked the book that had fallen out of the shelf earlier, but she ignored it, not caring how disorderly Snape’s house was at the moment. She wondered if Snape was awake, then she felt a tinge of panic. What would she tell him? That she had nothing? It was intolerable for her to be so unsuccessful. Better to get it over with, she thought.

She climbed the stairs slowly. As she entered the room, Snape raised his head to look at her with his black eyes. She went to him and checked his bandages. They were in need of another change, so she set to work, very self-conscious that his eyes followed her every move. She half expected him to voice his disapproval all the while guessing that he still could not speak. Though she had sought quiet and solitude, she found the silence uncomfortable.


When she finished changing the bandages, Hermione knelt by his bedside with her head down.

“I’m sorry, Professor. I didn’t find anything,” she nearly spat in self-disgust. “I found the file, but the only mention of treatment was that Dumbledore supplied the anti-venom! I feel so utterly useless!”

Snape grunted. She looked up to find his face agitated.

“My wand!” he forcibly rasped.

“Oh, of course!” She quickly retrieved his wand from her bag but hesitated a moment. He held his hand out in annoyed expectation. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know if you should have it yet.”

His eyes widened in anger as she said this. She felt certain, though, that giving it to him would be a bad idea. She wasn’t even certain if he knew who he was! What was to keep him from cursing her, from blaming her for his injuries?

“Miss Granger,” he croaked, “you will give me my wand.”

Hermione blushed as he said it. That certainly answered that question. Severus Snape knew who she was, so she was certain he also knew himself. She held the wand a little closer, still debating what the wisest course of action would be. He reached out and snatched the wand out of her hand with more strength than she thought he possessed in his present condition.

Before she could process what this meant, he flicked his wand toward her, and she half-shielded herself from whatever silent curse he sent her way. Only the spell did not hit Hermione; it hit the ornate armoire she had so admired behind her. The furniture creaked and groaned.

Snape laid his wand at his side and pointed to the armoire. “False bottom. Retrieve contents.” His voice was very broken and coarse – barely above a whisper. She wondered if he could get any louder with such a neck wound.

She realized her mouth was hanging stupidly open, but she rushed to do his bidding. The bottom of the armoire had been lowered by the silent spell, and she could reach her hand between the false bottom and the real one. She felt around, hoping there were no spiders, and found a small phial and a parchment book. She brought them out and presented them to Snape.

He nodded his approval. “Page 12,” came his whispered shell of a voice.

She opened the hand-written book to the appropriate page and could not believe her eyes. It was here: The process for producing the anti-venom for Nagini’s bites. She found that tears were in her eyes, and she hurriedly swiped at them.

Hermione lifted the phial in front of her. The liquid inside was clear. “Nagini’s venom?” Snape nodded his head, and it dawned on Hermione that Dumbledore had received the venom he had given to St. Mungo’s for Mr. Weasley from Snape himself – one who had been close enough to the snake to actually retrieve the venom. She silently chided herself for being so dense.

She quickly scanned through the list of ingredients. Some of the items she had brought with her, but some she had not. She hated to tell him that she didn’t have all of them, but when she looked up at him, he was already looking back toward the armoire. He hesitated before he spoke, as if deciding whether it was worth it to have her going through his possessions. “The rest is inside the armoire. Take what you need.” The two sentences were the most he’d spoken since she’d found him in the Shrieking Shack, and the effort to tell her all of these things had taken its toll. “First . . .,” he choked. He was fading fast, the toll of their conversation taking effect. “Must . . ..”

“Yes, yes, Professor,” Hermione said, scanning the directions again. “First I must boil the distilled water to exactly 110 degrees.”

He shook his head, but she was too distracted to notice. In frustration and exhaustion, he gave up, sunk back into his pillow, and closed his eyes.

Hermione tucked the covers around him and felt his forehead for signs of returning fever. Satisfied, she went to the armoire and slowly opened it. Shelf upon shelf unfolded in front of her, each one magically placed on top of the one before. When the armoire finished opening, she found herself surrounded by very organized and very large potions cabinet. Other items were neatly placed inside as well: a Sneakoscope, a Pensieve, and items that she was not familiar with. She smiled and set to work retrieving the ingredients she would need to produce the anti-venom that would save Severus Snape’s life.

***
A/N: Thanks for reading. Sorry the update was a little longer in coming this time! I'll try not to hold the next one so long. It's not quite complete, but hopefully I won't let it slide! Feedback, pretty please! Thanks for reading!

Chapter 6

In the kitchen, Hermione stared at the semi-familiar writing of the parchment book. Snape’s cramped, spiky writing was a bit difficult to read, and she wondered how Harry had managed with the Advanced Potion Making book. On the table, she laid out all of the ingredients necessary for the potion, taking extra care of the phial of venom. If she broke that, all would be lost.

For the next four hours, Hermione followed every last detail of the instructions, being careful not to over or under stir the contents in the proper direction at the precise temperature. The last step instructed her to carefully add three drops of the venom into the potion, waiting three seconds between the drops, then stirring twice counterclockwise. The potion would then sit for another hour, and if she had made it properly, it would turn a shimmering pale blue color at that time. She would not know if she had gone wrong somewhere until the hour had passed, and she was determined to brew this potion only once.

With nearly steady hands, she suctioned a bit of venom into a medicinal dropper and gently squeezed the top to add one drop. “One, two, three,” she said. She squeezed in another drop. “One, two, three.” She squeezed the last drop into the liquid. She counted again and then stirred it slowly as the page instructed. She turned the heat off on her Bunsen burner and watched the liquid as it softly bubbled.

Hermione cleared the mess she had made with her wand and headed back up to Snape’s room to replace the ingredients she had taken too much of. He was still sleeping, and she did not want to disturb him. She placed the items on the table by the bed and went back to the kitchen.

She looked once more at the instructions. Satisfied that all was well, she began to roll the parchment up. It wasn’t until that moment that she noticed a faded pen scratch on the back. Squinting her eyes to read it, she gasped.

Potion must not be given until the wounds have been sealed.

“No!” she moaned as she fell back into a chair. “It can’t be! All of that work for nothing!” She was fuming now. He should have warned her. He should have said something. This was unfair! She had the means for saving Snape, and she still could do nothing about it! Nothing she had tried had had any effect on sealing his wounds.

She shot up from the chair and slammed the door into the sitting room. She paced around the room, anger at the world filling her. She stubbed her toe on the side of a book lying on the floor, and she kicked it across the room. “Stupid book!” she raged at it. She knew that if she had just picked up the book earlier she could have avoided the pain in her toe, but at least this gave her something to direct her anger toward.

Hermione raised her wand with a malicious smile on her lips. As she was about to utter the curse to send the book up in flames, she stopped short. A thrill ran through her body. She dropped her wand and raced over to the book. Hermione flung open the black leather cover and flipped frantically, desperately searching for what she needed. The pages were written in Snape’s untidy scrawl. Luckily, he had organized this book It did not take her long to find what she wanted. She sucked in a short breath as she began to read.

“Coiresempre,” she muttered aloud. “Use this spell to close the deep gash wounds of the Sectumsempre spell. Move wand over wounds as if you are sewing. Cannot refastened severed body parts.” She jumped up, a sense of hope and excitement coursing through her body. She scooped her wand off of the floor, all but leaped over Crookshanks who had come in to see what she was up to, and took the stairs two at a time to get to Snape’s room. She burst through the door, not bothering to be quiet.

“Professor!” she shouted, waking him from his sleep. His eyes shot open in a panic as they darted around the room, searching for the danger. She immediately regretted her hasty entrance.

Hermione knelt quickly by the bed and took his hand. “I’ve found it, Professor! It was here all along! I should have known that the book contained something important when I knocked it off of the shelf earlier! I had just taken the Felix Felicis!” Snape narrowed his eyes as she continued, showing him the book as she spoke. “It’s another of your spells! I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask you!”

Snape shook his head slowly back and forth. “Sectumsempre,” he croaked.

She smiled gently, knowing he would have that argument. “It’s still worth a try, though. It’s better than nothing! I can’t give you the anti-venom potion until they wounds have sealed. Please, professor.”

“Must wait,” Snape continued. “Anti-venom. If it is not released from the body through the blood, the poison will disintegrate my organs.” He said it with no emotion, in the raspy voice she was becoming used to. She felt a deep frustration at his lack of enthusiasm. She wanted it to work so badly, and she thought he might be pleased to be saved from death. She shook her head slowly and squeezed his hand.

“Professor,” she implored,” people need you here.”

He removed his hand from hers and laid it gently on the top of her head in an almost intimate gesture. “No, Miss Granger. No one needs me here. Not any longer.”

“That’s not true,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. “I need you here.” She didn’t know why she’d said it, and she certainly couldn’t explain it to Professor Snape, but she knew in that moment that she had to succeed. Snape’s life was worth something more to her now that she’d been caring for him. She stood. “I’m going to perform this spell, Professor, once the potion is complete. Whether it is your wish or not, I cannot let you die under my care when I might have the means to save you.”

He nodded his head once with resignation. “I will not stop you.”

“Good!” she declared and clapped her hands together. “Can you give me any instruction on the spell?”

He gestured to the book in her hand. “All the information you need is there. You are a talented witch; if it is possible to heal these bites with the spell, I have no doubt that you will succeed in doing so,” he told her in a slow coarse whisper.

Hermione felt the heat rush to her cheeks at the unexpected compliment. “Thank you,” she said. “You might as well rest while the potion finished.”
“I can do little else.”

Hermione left the room and went back to the sitting room. She sat on the armchair and took a deep breath. She steadied her wand in front of her and practiced the spell. “ Coiresempre,” she muttered as she used the wand as she would a sewing needle. It was difficult to know if she had performed the task properly. She practiced again and again, hoping that her time of knitting hats for House Elves would pay off in the motion of this spell.

Hermione soon felt that she could practice no more, and she checked the clock. It was time to see if the potion had been brewed properly. She went to the kitchen and tentatively peeked into the cauldron. To her immense delight, the potion swirled with in a beautiful pearly, pale blue color. She gently poured it into a phial and climbed the stairs, trying to steady her breathing as she went.

This was it. This was what she had been working for. This would save Severus Snape.

“Professor,” she said, gently this time. “It’s time.”

***
A/N: Thanks for reading! It seems I might have lost a few of you with my untimely update last time. Hopefully I didn't. If you can spare the minute, please leave me some feedback. I'll be so grateful! Gah! And this ones a lot shorter! Sorry about that! Hopefully the next one will be a better length!

A/N: I put this at the end, too, but I wanted to encourage you all. I know this one is long, especially compared to my last chapterette, but I encourage you to read it in its entirety. I took a lot of it verbatim from chapter 33 of Deathly Hallows, and you will find a lot of those memories very familiar. I have added some in amongst them, though, and if you skim you might miss something important to my story. So, even if you're familiar with the words of JKR, please do read through them. After all, it was one of the best (and one of the worst) chapters she's ever written.

Chapter 7

“We will have to do this very quickly,” Hermione told him with her voice shaking. “If what you say is true, we will only have a few minutes once your wounds are healed. You’ll have to drink the potion quickly.”

“I am aware,” he said.

“All right, then. Shall we begin?” She raised her wand, but her hand shook horribly.

“Miss Granger, you will have to be steady. You will not have the proper motion with your wand shaking about.”

She lowered her head. “I am sorry, Professor. I’m so very nervous! I know I can do this in theory, but what if my hand slips?”

“You must overcome this foolish fear. Just perform the spell and do not think so much about it. It is a spell, like any other, and you have done more complicated.”

“Will it hurt you?”

“It does not matter if it does. You must think as little of me as possible. Do what must be done.”

She nodded, but her hands still quaked.

“Miss Granger,” Snape said in a softer whisper. “I am in pain already. If you are successful, as you think you will be, then you will end my pain.”

“Right,” she said. It was all the encouragement she needed. She pointed her wand at the top of his wounds and readied herself. “ Coiresempre!” She moved her hands quickly over the wounds, invisibly sewing them up. She had to focus not to lose her concentration on the spell as she saw the wounds close. Her sharp intake of breath was the only indication that Snape had that the spell was working. He closed his eyes, skin stinging from the spell, and focused on the best of his memories. A hint of a smile touched the corners of his mouth.

Soon, Hermione finished closing his wounds. She drew in a long breath and reached for the potion. “Professor,” she said gently, laying her hand on his shoulder. “It’s time to drink this.” He didn’t seem to stir. “Professor, we have little time!” she said louder.

Keeping his eyes closed, Snape reached for the bottle of the anit-venom potion. In one swift swig, he swallowed the entire contents. His face contorted as the bitter liquid ran over his tongue and down his throat. He gagged slightly, all the while keeping his eyes closed. He handed the empty bottle back to Hermione, and she put it on the bedside table. He sank back into his pillow, the smile still a shadow on his face.

Hermione debated her next step for a moment. “Dittany,” she mumbled. “Professor, you treated Draco’s similar wounds with dittany to treat the scarring. I’m sure I have some.”

He nodded slowly, and she went to her smaller room to grab her bag from the bed. She routed around in it until she found the dittany. She brought it back to Snape’s bedside and took a bit of the gel-like substance made from the plant from its container. She rubbed it over her hands. Hesitating for a moment, she began to rub the substance into the freshly closed wounds of her former professor. His skin was red from her earlier ministrations, but it was firm with no indication that it would split.

Snape’s breathing was slow, and she found herself wishing that he would speak to her. She was almost certain the anti-venom potion worked, but how would she know? He would die otherwise, she told herself. Continuing to treat his scars, she pondered the strange, almost eerie smile that his mouth still bore. He was asleep. It caught her as strange that the man who did not smile while awake could so easily wear the expression while he slumbered.

Who had put it there? She thought briefly of the memories still swirling in their phials in her bag. Was the answer within those silvery wisps? Harry had shared very little of what he had seen when he had explored them; only that Snape was not the man they had thought him to be. As she had always suspected.

She finished applying the dittany and wiped her hands on a towel. She then went to the armoire as silently as she could and tapped her wand to it. It opened with a creak, and she cringed. She turned to Snape and was relieved to find him still asleep. Exhaling, she faced the contents of the cabinet again. She truly was in awe of his collection. Not even Hogwarts could boast such a store! She lightly fingered the phials and bottles, and she ran her hand along the edge of the Pensieve. Such a strange device. She had really wanted to try one since Harry had first told her about the experience. She quietly crept to her bedroom and took out the phial of Snape’s memories. She went back to the armoire and stared at it. She desperately wanted to know what was in those memories, and that was a bit abnormal for her. Usually such things held no temptation. People had their secrets, and she respected that. But here, now, she felt a pull to understand what had happened in this man’s tragic past to make him who and what he was today.

She pulled the Pensieve off of its shelf as carefully as she could and placed it on the smooth surface of the shelf in front of her waist. The shelf pulled out a bit, and she could tell by the ink stains on the wood that it was used as his writing desk. She tapped the phial with her finger and was about to pull out the cork stopper before she inwardly cringed at the thought of what she had just about done. With shaking hands, she gently laid the phial by the Pensieve and started to close the armoire doors.

“By all means,” Severus Snape said in a stronger yet still raspy voice. Hermione jumped at the sound, knocking into the armoire and causing the phial of memories to roll to the floor. She knelt down promptly and retrieved it as it rolled toward the bed.

“I am so sorry, sir,” she said a little breathlessly. “I would never have done it. I was merely tempted.” She held the phial out to him, but he refused to take it. She dropped her hand to her side. “You are looking much improved. How long will you take to heal completely?”

“My body has never died before, Miss Granger, so I should hardly know the speed of recovery at which I will improve.”

She cocked her head to the side at his sarcastic comment. “Your body? That’s a strange way to put it.”

He closed his eyes. “My soul was murdered a long time ago.”

Her breath caught in her throat at that unbelievably personal thing to say. She hadn’t expected it from him. Not to her. What was in those memories that caused him such obvious pain?

“Why don’t you see it for yourself,” he half snarled at her.

Incredulous, she took a step backwards. “You are reading my thoughts?”

He stared coldly at her. “I refuse to feel any amount of guilt over it to someone who has just been rifling through my personal possessions. I have killed for less.”

Again, her breath caught. What had she been thinking to save this monster's life?

“Monster, Miss Granger?” He closed his eyes again. “You have no idea. You might as well get it over with so you can leave me in peace. Look at them. Here,” he said as he put his wand to his temple and withdrew several more strands of memories. “You might as well be thorough in your investigation.”

Turning red at his intrusion into her mind, she uncorked the bottle and let him drop the memories inside the phial. "I will look at them if you will promise to stay out of my head.”

“I will promise you nothing.”

This is the thanks I get? she fumed. His mouth twitched in morbid amusement as she thought it, and she knew he’d heard that as well. “Fine,” she said.

“Do not get testy with me, Miss Granger. You are curious as to how the Pensieve works, and you are curious as to what my pathetic memories contain. This will alleviate both of your curiosities at once.” She went to the Pensieve and dumped Snape’s memories inside. A silvery light filled the basin as she stared at it. “Swirl them around with your wand, and then put your face in.”

Feeling the fool, she did as he commanded. The moment her face hit the memories, she felt as though she were being pulled inside. She felt the sensation of falling and closed her eyes. The next moment, she was standing outside of the very shack she was now in. She could hear screams of rage coming from inside. Nervously, Hermione found a window and peered inside. A man and a woman were arguing. The man held a frying pan in his hand, and the woman was levitating kitchen knives. He used the pan to hit the knives out of the air as he came closer to her. Hermione couldn’t tell what was going on, but they were screaming hateful words, and the woman’s teasr flowed freely. When the man was close enough to the woman, he reached out and grabbed her wand from her hand. She struggled for a moment but released the wand before he could snap it. The knives fell to the floor in a clatter. The man raised the frying pan over her head.

“Please, no, Tobias! Severus!” she shrieked. Hermione closed her eyes as the man brought the pan down on the woman’s head. She crumpled to the floor.

Breathing heavily and palms sweating, Hermione sank to her knees by the house. She couldn’t believe what she had just seen. It was unfathomable to her. She drew in a shaky breath and heard someone crying. She looked around and saw a young boy peering up through another window of the home. He could be no older than seven, she thought. The boy was definitely Severus Snape; though his features were young and fresh, she could never mistake those cold and empty black eyes for any one else.

His tears were trailing down his face, his eyes were wide, and his nose was running. “Mummy! Mummy! She’s dead. Mummy?” His voice was barely audible. He ducked suddenly as a shadow passed by the window. The child curled his knees up to his chest as he rocked himself back and forth beneath the window sill. Hermione peeked in the house. The woman still lay crumpled on the floor, but she could see the steady rise and fall of her chest. Relief washed over her.

“It’s all right, Sir –“ she paused. It seemed strange calling this boy “sir”. “Severus,” she tried. “She’s alive. She’s all right.” The promise was empty, but she wanted to comfort him. He gave no indication that he had heard her, and she again felt stupid. Of course he didn’t see her. She was merely a witness to this memory, not a participant.

Hermione peered up at the sky. “I’ve had enough, Professor. I want out.”

His voice rang in her head, You’ve not seen nearly enough. Her heart sank as the images around her began to swirl. Soon she found herself inside the house. The dark-haired boy was crying in the corner of the small sitting room that barely looked any better than it was today. Tobias Snape, with his long crooked nose, was once again yelling at Snape’s mother. She was cowering before him, her arms over her head. The man reached down and grabbed her wrist and pulled her hands away from her face. Hermione found she was close to tears. The helpless boy looked on as the woman screamed for mercy. Why did no one come to help her? “Enough,” she cried uselessly. The room swirled.

She found herself looking at a deserted playground. Two girls were swinging backward and forward, and a skinny boy was watching them from behind a clump of bushes. His black hair was overlong and his clothes were so mismatched that it looked deliberate: too short jeans, a shabby, overlarge coat that might have belonged to a grown man, an odd smock-like shirt.

“Lily, don’t do it!” shrieked the elder of the two.

But the girl had let go of the swing at the very height of its arc and flown into the air, quite literally flown, launched herself skyward with a great shout of laughter, and instead of crumpling on the playground asphalt, she soared like a trapeze artist through the air, staying up far too long, landing far too lightly.

“Mummy told you not to!”

Hermione knew, of course, that this was Harry’s mother and his aunt. She watched them intently. Petunia stopped her swing by dragging the heels of her sandals on the ground, making a crunching, grinding sound, then leapt up, hands on hips.

“Mummy said you weren’t allowed, Lily!”

“But I’m fine,” said Lily, still giggling. “Tuney, look at this. Watch what I can do.”

Petunia glanced around. Lily had picked up a fallen flower from the bush behind which Snape lurked. Petunia advanced, evidently torn between curiosity and disapproval. Lily waited until Petunia was near enough to have a clear view, then held out her palm. The flower sat there, opening and closing its petals, like some bizarre, many-lipped oyster.

“Stop it!” shrieked Petunia.

“It’s not hurting you,” said Lily, but she closed her hand on the blossom and threw it back to the ground.

“It’s not right,” said Petunia, but her eyes had followed the flower’s flight to the ground and lingered upon it. “How do you do it?” she added, and there was definite longing in her voice.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Snape could no longer contain himself, but had jumped out from behind the bushes. Petunia shrieked and ran backward toward the swings, but Lily, though clearly startled, remained where she was.

A dull flush of color mounted the sallow cheeks as he looked at Lily.

“What’s obvious?” asked Lily.

Snape had an air of nervous excitement. With a glance at the distant Petunia, now hovering beside the swings, he lowered his voice and said, “I know what you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re. . . you’re a witch,” whispered Snape.

She looked affronted.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say to somebody!”

She turned, nose in the air, and marched off toward her sister.

“No!” said Snape. He was highly colored now. He flapped after the girls.

The sisters considered him, united in disapproval, both holding on to one of the swing poles, as though it was the safe place in tag.

“You are,” said Snape to Lily. “You are a witch. I’ve been watching you for a while. But there’s nothing wrong with that. My mum’s one, and I’m a wizard.”

Petunia laughed. “Wizard!” she shrieked, her courage returned now that she had recovered from the shock of his unexpected appearance. “I know who you are. You’re that Snape boy! They live down Spinner’s End by the river,” she told Lily, and it was evident from her tone that she considered the address a poor recommendation.

“Why have you been spying on us?”

“Haven’t been spying,” said Snape. “Wouldn’t spy on you, anyway,” he added spitefully, “you’re a Muggle.”

Though Petunia evidently did not understand the word, she could hardly mistake the tone.

“Lily, come on, we’re leaving!” she said shrilly. Lily obeyed her sister at once, glaring at Snape as she left. He stood watching them as they marched through the playground gate.

The scene dissolved and re-formed. She was now in a small thicket of trees. Two children sat facing each other, cross-legged on the ground. Snape had removed his coat now; his odd smock looked less peculiar in the half light.

“. . . and the Ministry can punish you if you do magic outside school, you get letters.”

“But I have done magic outside school!”

“We’re all right. We haven’t got wands yet. They let you off when you’re a kid and you can’t help it. But once you’re eleven,” he nodded importantly, “and they start training you, then you’ve got to go careful.”

“It is real, isn’t it? It’s not a joke? Petunia says you’re lying to me. Petunia says there isn’t a Hogwarts. It is real, isn’t it?”

“It’s real for us,” said Snape. “Not for her. But we’ll get the letter, you and me.”

“Really?” whispered Lily.

“Definitely,” said Snape.

“And will it really come by owl?” Lily whispered.

“Normally,” said Snape. “But you’re Muggle-born, so someone from the school will have to come and explain to your parents.”

“Does it make a difference, being Muggle-born?”

Snape hesitated. His black eyes, eager in the greenish gloom, moved over the pale face, the dark red hair.

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t make any difference.”

“Good,” said Lily, relaxing. It was clear that she had been worrying.

“You’ve got loads of magic,” said Snape. “I saw that. All the time I was watching you. . . ”

“How are things at your house?” Lily asked.

A little crease appeared between his eyes.

“Fine,” he said.

“They’re not arguing anymore?”

“Oh yes, they’re arguing,” said Snape. He picked up a fistful of leaves and began tearing them apart, apparently unaware of what he was doing. “But it won’t be that long and I’ll be gone.”

“Doesn’t your dad like magic?”

“He doesn’t like anything, much,” said Snape.

“Severus?”

A little smile twisted Snape’s mouth when she said his name.

“Yeah?”

“Tell me about the dementors again.”

“What d’you want to know about them for?”

“If I use magic outside school—”

“They wouldn’t give you to the dementors for that! Dementors are for people who do really bad stuff. They guard the wizard prison, Azkaban. You’re not going to end up in Azkaban, you’re too—”

A small rustling sound revealed that Petunia had been watching them.

“Tuney!” said Lily, surprise and welcome in her voice, but Snape had jumped to his feet.

“Who’s spying now?” he shouted. “What d’you want?”

“What is that you’re wearing, anyway?” she said, pointing at Snape’s chest. “Your mum’s blouse?”

There was a crack. A branch over Petunia’s head had fallen. Lily screamed. The branch caught Petunia on the shoulder, and she staggered backward and burst into tears.

“Tuney!”

But Petunia was running away. Lily rounded on Snape.

“Did you make that happen?”

“No.” He looked both defiant and scared.

“You did!” She was backing away from him. “You did! You hurt her!”

“No—no, I didn’t!”

But the lie did not convince Lily. After one last burning look, she ran from the little thicket, off after her sister, and Snape looked miserable and confused.

And the scene re-formed. Hermione looked around. She was on platform nine and three quarters, and Snape stood beside her, slightly hunched, next to a thin, sallow-faced, sour-looking woman who greatly resembled him. Snape was staring at a family of four a short distance away. The two girls stood a little apart from their parents. Lily seemed to be pleading with her sister.

“. . . I’m sorry, Tuney, I’m sorry! Listen—” She caught her sister’s hand and held tight to it, even though Petunia tried to pull it away. “Maybe once I’m there—no, listen, Tuney! Maybe once I’m there, I’ll be able to go to Professor Dumbledore and persuade him to change his mind!”

“I don’t—want—to—go!” said Petunia, and she dragged her hand back out of her sister’s grasp. You think I want to go to some stupid castle and learn to be a—a. . . —you think I want to be a—a freak?”

Lily’s eyes filled with tears as Petunia succeeded in tugging her hand away.

“I’m not a freak,” said Lily. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“That’s where you’re going,” said Petunia with relish. “A special school for freaks. You and that Snape boy. . . weirdos, that’s what you two are. It’s good you’re being separated from normal people. It’s for our safety.”

Lily glanced toward her parents, who were looking around the platform with an air of wholehearted enjoyment, drinking in the scene. Then she looked back at her sister, and her voice was low and fierce.

“You didn’t think it was such a freak’s school when you wrote to the headmaster and begged him to take you.”

Petunia turned scarlet.

“Beg? I didn’t beg!”

“I saw his reply. It was very kind.”

“You shouldn’t have read—” whispered Petunia, “that was my private—how could you—?”

Lily gave herself away by half-glancing toward where Snape stood nearby. Petunia gasped.

“That boy found it! You and that boy have been sneaking in my room!”

“No—not sneaking—” Now Lily was on the defensive. “Severus saw the envelope, and he couldn’t believe a Muggle could have contacted Hogwarts, that’s all! He says there must be wizards working undercover in the postal service who take care of—”

“Apparently wizards poke their noses in everywhere!” said Petunia, now as pale as she had been flushed. “Freak!” she spat at her sister, and she flounced off to where her parents stood. . .

The scene dissolved again. Snape was hurrying along the corridor of the Hogwarts Express as it clattered through the countryside. He had already changed into his school robes, had perhaps taken the first opportunity to take off his dreadful Muggle clothes. At last he stopped, outside a compartment in which a group of rowdy boys were talking. Hunched in a corner seat beside the window was Lily, her face pressed against the windowpane.

Snape slid open the compartment door and sat down opposite Lily. She glanced at him and then looked back out of the window. She had been crying.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said in a constricted voice.

“Why not?”

“Tuney h-hates me. Because we saw that letter from Dumbledore.”

“So what?”

She threw him a look of deep dislike.

“So she’s my sister!”

“She’s only a—” He caught himself quickly; Lily, too busy trying to wipe her eyes without being noticed, did not hear him. “But we’re going!” he said, unable to suppress the exhilaration in his voice. “This is it! We’re off to Hogwarts!”

She nodded, mopping her eyes, but in spite of herself, she half smiled.

“You’d better be in Slytherin,” said Snape, encouraged that she had brightened a little.

“Slytherin?”

“Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?” A boy who had to have been Harry’s father asked another boy lounging on the seats opposite him, and with a jolt.

“My whole family have been in Slytherin,” he said. Hermione realized this must be Sirius.

“Blimey,” said James, “and I thought you seemed all right!”

Sirius grinned. “Maybe I’ll break the tradition. Where are you heading, if you’ve got the choice?”

James lifted an invisible sword. “’Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart!’ Like my dad.” Snape made a small, disparaging noise. James turned on him. “Got a problem with that?”

“No,” said Snape, though his slight sneer said otherwise. “If you’d rather be brawny than brainy—”

“Where’re you hoping to go, seeing as you’re neither?” interjected Sirius.

James roared with laughter. Lily sat up, rather flushed, and looked from James to Sirius in dislike.

“Come on, Severus, let’s find another compartment.”

“Oooooo. . . ”

James and Sirius imitated her lofty voice; James tried to trip Snape as he passed.

“See ya, Snivellus!” a voice called, as the compartment door slammed. . .

And the scene dissolved once more. . .

Hermione was standing right behind Snape as they faced the candlelit House tables, lined with rapt faces. Then Professor McGonagall said, “Evans, Lily!”

Professor McGonagall dropped the Sorting Hat onto her head, and barely a second after it had touched the dark red hair, the hat cried, “Gryffindor!”

At last, when only a dozen students remained to be sorted, Professor McGonagall called Snape. “Slytherin!” cried the Sorting Hat.

And Severus Snape moved off to the other side of the Hall, away from Lily.

And the scene changed. . .

Lily and Snape were walking across the castle courtyard, evidently arguing
A few years seemed to have passed since their Sorting.

“. . . thought we were supposed to be friends?” Snape was saying, “Best
friends?”

“We are, Sev, but I don’t like some of the people you’re hanging round with! I’m sorry, but I detest Avery and Mulciber! Mulciber! What do you see in him, Sev, he’s creepy! D’you know what he tried to do to Mary MacDonald the other day?”

Lily had reached a pillar and leaned against it, looking up into the thin, sallow face.

“That was nothing,” said Snape. “It was a laugh, that’s all—”

“It was Dark Magic, and if you think that’s funny—”

“What about the stuff Potter and his mates get up to?” demanded Snape. His color rose again as he said it, unable, it seemed, to hold in his resentment.

“What’s Potter got to do with anything?” said Lily.

“They sneak out at night. There’s something weird about that Lupin. Where does he keep going?”

“He’s ill,” said Lily. “They say he’s ill—”

“Every month at the full moon?” said Snape.

“I know your theory,” said Lily, and she sounded cold. “Why are you so obsessed with them anyway? Why do you care what they’re doing at night?”

“I’m just trying to show you they’re not as wonderful as everyone seems to think they are.”

The intensity of his gaze made her blush.
“They don’t use Dark Magic, though.” She dropped her voice. “And you’re being really ungrateful. I heard what happened the other night. You went sneaking down that tunnel by the Whomping Willow, and James Potter saved you from whatever’s down there—”

Snape’s whole face contorted and he spluttered, “Saved? Saved? You think he was playing the hero? He was saving his neck and his friends’ too! You’re not going to—I won’t let you—”

“Let me? Let me?”

Lily’s bright green eyes were slits. Snape backtracked at once.
“I didn’t mean—I just don’t want to see you made a fool of—He fancies you, James Potter fancies you!” The words seemed wrenched from him against his will. “And he’s not. . . everyone thinks. . . big Quidditch hero—” Snape’s bitterness and dislike were rendering him incoherent, and Lily’s eyebrows were traveling farther and farther up her forehead.

“I know James Potter’s an arrogant toerag,” she said, cutting across Snape.

“I don’t need you to tell me that. But Mulciber’s and Avery’s idea of humor is just evil. Evil, Sev. I don’t understand how you can be friends with them.”

And the scene dissolved. . .

Hermione watched a scene she knew already. This was the one Harry had told her about in their fifth year. The one he shouldn’t have seen. Guilt washed through her again as she thought that she shouldn’t be seeing it either. Snape left the Great Hall after sitting one of his O.W.L.s. She watched as he wandered away from the castle and strayed inadvertently close to the place beneath the beech tree where James, Sirius, Lupin, and Pettigrew sat together. She watched as the group of boys tormented Snape, and she felt so horrid for him. Suddenly, Lily had come to his defense, but he rejected it. Snape shouted at her in his humiliation and his fury, “I don’t need help from a filthy Mudblood!”

The scene changed. . .

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not interested.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Save your breath.”

It was nighttime. Lily, who was wearing a dressing gown, stood with her arms folded in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

“I only came out because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep here.”

“I was. I would have done. I never meant to call you Mudblood, it just—”

“Slipped out?” There was no pity in Lily’s voice. “It’s too late. I’ve made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you. You and your precious little Death Eater friends—you see, you don’t even deny it! You don’t even deny that’s what you’re all aiming to be! You can’t wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?”

He opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking.

“I can’t pretend anymore. You’ve chosen your way, I’ve chosen mine.”

“No—listen, I didn’t mean—”

“—to call me Mudblood? But you call everyone of my birth Mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any different?”

He struggled on the verge of speech, but with a contemptuous look she turned and climbed back through the portrait hole. . .

The setting changed again.

“If you leave this house, worm, you will never return to it.”

Severus Snape appeared as a teenager, tall and lanky. His hair was stringy and greasy, and his eyes were hollow. “That is my plan.”

“Sir. You will call me sir.” The man reached out to cuff him on the shoulder, but Snape dodged him.

“Do not touch me, sir.” He turned to leave.

“There will be no one to protect her if you leave, worm.” Tobias smiled. “Will you condemn your precious mother to that?”

Snape drew himself up to his full height and turned to advance on the man. “I promised her that I would not hurt her,” he seethed. “How she can love something like you, I’ll never understand, but you will not hurt her again.” Tobias looked a little intimidated by the tall boy, but he did not back down far. “I will return to Hogwarts for my final year,” Snape continued. “When I do return, things will be different.” With that he walked out of the house, and the images blurred in front of Hermione.

The setting materialized at a grave site. Snape looked about eighteen. He stood dressed in his worn out black robes, and there was no sign of his father or anyone else for that matter. He stood over a freshly dug grave and dropped a handful of dirt on top. Hermione’s hand came to her mouth as she realized she was witnessing the burial of Snape’s mother.

“Does it sting, Severus?” a cold, melodic voice rang in her ears. Her breath hissed and took a step backwards as Tom Riddle came out from nowhere. His features were elongated, and he was not nearly so handsome as she knew he had been in his days at Hogwarts. His skin was waxy and his face distorted. Hermione shuddered.

“I wish to be alone,” Snape snapped.

“We are, all of us, alone, Severus. I can help you, though. You can rise to greatness if you will join me as your friends have done.”

“I have no friends,” Snape laughed derisively.

Voldemort regarded him for a moment. “You have no need of them. I can make you great. A god among men.”

Snape looked at him as if he were crazy. Even then, Hermione thought, he knew that Voldemort wouldn’t share his glory. But he hesitated.

Voldemort looked very pleased, as if he already knew what Snape’s decision would be. “He killed her.”

“He claimed it was an accident. She just never recovered.”

“An accident!” Voldemort snarled. “And you believe him?”

“No.”

“This is what comes of witches and wizards marrying beneath them. A common Muggle causing you this much pain. It is unthinkable.” Snape shrank into himself with each insult against his mother that Voldemort uttered. “We can take care of this problem,” he said soothingly.

“How?” Snape asked, arching his black eyebrows.

“Take my Dark Mark, Snape. Pledge your devotion to me, and then we will hunt him down and remove his disgusting existence from this world.”

Snape’s eyes widened. “Kill him?”

“It’s what you’ve been wanting to do for years. I can do it for you if you’d like . . ..”

Hermione held her breath as she considered what she was seeing. Severus looked into the eyes of Voldemort, and as a tear fell from her eye, he said, “No. I will do it, my lord.”


The cemetery dissolved, and the scene took a little longer to reform: Hermione seemed to fly through shifting shapes and colors until her surroundings solidified again and he stood on a hilltop, forlorn and cold in the darkness, the wind whistling through the branches of a few leafless trees. The adult Snape was panting, turning on the spot, his wand gripped tightly in his hand, waiting for something or for someone. . . His fear infected Hermione too, even though she knew that she could not be harmed, and she looked over his shoulder, wondering what it was that Snape was waiting for—

Then a blinding, jagged jet of white light flew through the air. Snape dropped to his knees.

“Don’t kill me!”

“That was not my intention.”

Any sound of Dumbledore Apparating had been drowned by the sound of the wind in the branches. He stood before Snape with his robes whipping around him, and his face was illuminated from below in the light cast by his wand.

“Well, Severus? What message does Lord Voldemort have for me?”

“No—no message—I’m here on my own account!”

Snape was wringing his hands. He looked a little mad, with his straggling black hair flying around him. “I—I come with a warning—no, a request—please—”

Dumbledore flicked his wand. Though leaves and branches still flew through the night air around them, silence fell on the spot where he and Snape faced each other.

“What request could a Death Eater make of me?”

“The—the prophecy. . . the prediction. . . Trelawney. . . ”

“Ah, yes,” said Dumbledore. “How much did you relay to Lord Voldemort?”

“Everything—everything I heard!” said Snape. “That is why—it is for that reason—he thinks it means Lily Evans!”

“The prophecy did not refer to a woman,” said Dumbledore. “It spoke of a boy born at the end of July—”

“You know what I mean! He thinks it means her son, he is going to hunt her down—kill them all—“

“If she means so much to you,” said Dumbledore, “surely Lord Voldemort will spare her? Could you not ask for mercy for the mother, in exchange for the son?”

“I have—I have asked him—”

“You disgust me,” said Dumbledore. Snape seemed to shrink a little, “You do not care, then, about the deaths of her husband and child? They can die, as long as you have what you want?”

Snape said nothing, but merely looked up at Dumbledore.

“Hide them all, then,” he croaked. “Keep her—them—safe. Please.”

“And what will you give me in return, Severus?”

“In—in return?” Snape gaped at Dumbledore, and Hermione held her breath, expecting him to protest, but after a long moment he said, “Anything.”

The hilltop faded, and Hermione stood in Dumbledore’s office. Something was making a terrible sound, like a wounded animal. Snape was slumped forward in a chair and Dumbledore was standing over him, looking grim. After a moment or two, Snape raised his face, and he looked like a man who had lived a hundred years of misery since leaving the wild hilltop.

“I thought. . . you were going. . . to keep her. . . safe. . . ”

“She and James put their faith in the wrong person,” said Dumbledore. “Rather like you, Severus. Weren’t you hoping that Lord Voldemort would spare her?”

Snape’s breathing was shallow.

“Her boy survives,” said Dumbledore.

With a tiny jerk of the head, Snape seemed to flick off an irksome fly.

“Her son lives. He has her eyes, precisely her eyes. You remember the shape and color of Lily Evans’s eyes, I am sure?”

“DON’T!” bellowed Snape. “Gone. . . dead. . . ”

“Is this remorse, Severus?”

“I wish. . . I wish I were dead. . . ”

“And what use would that be to anyone?” said Dumbledore coldly. “If you loved Lily Evans, if you truly loved her, then your way forward is clear.”

Snape seemed to peer through a haze of pain, and Dumbledore’s words appeared to take a long time to reach him.

“What—what do you mean?”

“You know how and why she died. Make sure it was not in vain. Help me protect Lily’s son.”

“He does not need protection. The Dark Lord has gone—”

“The Dark Lord will return, and Harry Potter will be in terrible danger when he does.”

There was a long pause, and slowly Snape regained control of himself, mastered his own breathing. At last he said, “Very well. Very well. But never—never tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us! Swear it! I cannot bear. . . especially Potter’s son. . . I want your word!”

“My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you?” Dumbledore sighed, looking down into Snape’s ferocious, anguished face. “If you insist. . . ”

The office dissolved but re-formed instantly. Snape was pacing up and down in front of Dumbledore. “—mediocre, arrogant as his father, a determined rule-breaker, delighted to find himself famous, attention-seeking and impertinent—”

“You see what you expect to see, Severus,” said Dumbledore, without raising his eyes from a copy of Transfiguration Today. “Other teachers report that the boy is modest, likable, and reasonably talented. Personally, I find him an engaging child.” Dumbledore turned a page, and said, without looking up, “Keep an eye on Quirrell, won’t you?”

A whirl of color, and now everything darkened, and Snape and Dumbledore stood a little apart in the entrance hall, while the last stragglers from the Yule Ball passed them on their way to bed.

“Well?” murmured Dumbledore.

“Karkaroff’s Mark is becoming darker too. He is panicking, he fears retribution; you know how much help he gave the Ministry after the Dark Lord fell.” Snape looked sideways at Dumbledore’s crooked-nosed profile. “Karkaroff intends to flee if the Mark burns.”

“Does he?” said Dumbledore softly, as Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies came giggling in from the grounds. “And are you tempted to join him?”

“No,” said Snape, his black eyes on Fleur’s and Roger’s retreating figures. “I am not such a coward.”

“No,” agreed Dumbledore. “You are a braver man by far than Igor Karkaroff. "You know, I sometimes think we Sort too soon. . . ”

He walked away, leaving Snape looking stricken. . .

And now Hermione stood in the headmaster’s office yet again. It was nighttime, and Dumbledore sagged sideways in the thronelike chair behind the desk, apparently semiconscious. His right hand dangled over the side, blackened and burned. Snape was muttering incantations, pointing his wand at the wrist of the hand, while with his left hand he tipped a goblet full of thick golden potion down Dumbledore’s throat. After a moment or two, Dumbledore’s eyelids fluttered and opened.

“Why,” said Snape, without preamble, “why did you put on that ring? It carries a curse, surely you realized that. Why even touch it?”

Marvolo Gaunt’s ring lay on the desk before Dumbledore. It was cracked; the sword of Gryffindor lay beside it.

Dumbledore grimaced.

“I. . .was a fool. Sorely tempted. . . ”

“Tempted by what?”

Dumbledore did not answer.

“It is a miracle you managed to return here!” Snape sounded furious. “That ring carried a curse of extraordinary power, to contain it is all we can hope for; I have trapped the curse in one hand for the time being—”

Dumbledore raised his blackened, useless hand, and examined it with the expression of one being shown an interesting curio.

“You have done very well, Severus. How long do you think I have?”

Dumbledore’s tone was conversational; he might have been asking for a weather forecast.

Snape hesitated, and then said, “I cannot tell. Maybe a year. There is no halting such a spell forever. It will spread eventually, it is the sort of curse that strengthens over time.”

Dumbledore smiled. The news that he had less than a year to live seemed a matter of little or no concern to him. “I am fortunate, extremely fortunate, that I have you, Severus.”

“If you had only summoned me a little earlier, I might have been able to do more, buy you more time!” said Snape furiously. He looked down at the broken ring and the sword. “Did you think that breaking the ring would break the curse?”

“Something like that. . . I was delirious, no doubt. . . ” said Dumbledore. With an effort he straightened himself in his chair. “Well, really, this makes matters much more straightforward.”

Snape looked utterly perplexed. Dumbledore smiled.

“I refer to the plan Lord Voldemort is revolving around me. His plan to have the poor Malfoy boy murder me.”

Snape sat down across from Dumbledore. Scowling, Snape said, “The Dark Lord does not expect Draco to succeed. This is merely punishment for Lucius’s recent failures. Slow torture for Draco’s parents, while they watch him fail and pay the price.”

“In short, the boy has had a death sentence pronounced upon him as surely as I have,” said Dumbledore. “Now, I should have thought the natural successor to the job, once Draco fails, is yourself?”

There was a short pause.

“That, I think, is the Dark Lord’s plan.”

“Lord Voldemort foresees a moment in the near future when he will not need a spy at Hogwarts?”

“He believes the school will soon be in his grasp, yes.”

“And if it does fall into his grasp,” said Dumbledore, almost, it seemed, as an aside, “I have your word that you will do all in your power to protect the students at Hogwarts?”

Snape gave a stiff nod.

“Good. Now then. Your first priority will be to discover what Draco is up to. A frightened teenage boy is a danger to others as well as to himself. Offer him help and guidance, he ought to accept, he likes you—”

“—much less since his father has lost favor. Draco blames me, he thinks I have usurped Lucius’s position.”

“All the same, try. I am concerned less for myself than for accidental victims of whatever schemes might occur to the boy. Ultimately, of course, there is only one thing to be done if we are to save him from Lord Voldemort’s wrath.”

Snape raised his eyebrows and his tone was sardonic as he asked, “Are you intending to let him kill you?”

“Certainly not. You must kill me.”

There was a long silence, broken only by an odd clicking noise. Fawkes the phoenix was gnawing a bit of cuttlebone.

“Would you like me to do it now?” asked Snape, his voice heavy with irony. “Or would you like a few moments to compose an epitaph?”

“Oh, not quite yet,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “I daresay the moment will present itself in due course. Given what has happened tonight,” he indicated his withered hand, “we can be sure that it will happen within a year.”

“If you don’t mind dying,” said Snape roughly, “why not let Draco do it?”

“That boy’s soul is not yet so damaged,” said Dumbledore. “I would not have it ripped apart on my account.”

“And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?”

“You alone know whether it will harm your soul to help an old man avoid pain and humiliation,” said Dumbledore. “I ask this one great favor of you, Severus, because death is coming for me as surely as the Chudley Cannons will finish bottom of this year’s league. I confess I should prefer a quick, painless exit to the protracted and messy affair it will be if, for instance, Greyback is involved—I hear Voldemort has recruited him? Or dear Bellatrix, who likes to play with her food before she eats it.”

His tone was light, but his blue eyes pierced Snape as though the soul they discussed was visible to him. At last Snape gave another curt nod.

Dumbledore seemed satisfied.

“Thank you, Severus. . . ”

The office disappeared, and now Snape and Dumbledore were strolling together in the deserted castle grounds by twilight.

“What are you doing with Potter, all these evenings you are closeted together?” Snape asked abruptly.

Dumbledore looked weary.

“Why? You aren’t trying to give him more detentions, Severus? The boy will soon have spent more time in detention than out.”

“He is his father over again—”

“In looks, perhaps, but his deepest nature is much more like his mother’s. I spend time with Harry because I have things to discuss with him, information I must give him before it is too late.”

“Information,” repeated Snape. “You trust him. . . you do not trust me.”

“It is not a question of trust. I have, as we both know, limited time. It is essential that I give the boy enough information for him to do what he needs to do.”

“And why may I not have the same information?”

“I prefer not to put all of my secrets in one basket, particularly not a basket that spends so much time dangling on the arm of Lord Voldemort.”

“Which I do on your orders!”

“And you do it extremely well. Do not think that I underestimate the constant danger in which you place yourself, Severus. To give Voldemort what appears to be valuable information while withholding the essentials is a job I would entrust to nobody but you.”

“Yet you confide much more in a boy who is incapable of Occlumency, whose magic is mediocre, and who has a direct connection into the Dark Lord’s mind!”

“Voldemort fears that connection,” said Dumbledore. “Not so long ago he had one small taste of what truly sharing Harry’s mind means to him. It was pain such as he has never experienced. He will not try to possess Harry again, I am sure of it. Not in that way.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Lord Voldemort’s soul, maimed as it is, cannot bear close contact with a soul like Harry’s. Like a tongue on frozen steel, like flesh in flame—”

“Souls? We were talking of minds!”

“In the case of Harry and Lord Voldemort, to speak of one is to speak of the other.”

Dumbledore glanced around to make sure that they were alone. They were close by the Forbidden Forest now, but there was no sign of anyone near them.

“After you have killed me, Severus—”

“You refuse to tell me everything, yet you expect that small service of me!” snarled Snape, and real anger flared in the thin face now. “You take a great deal for granted, Dumbledore! Perhaps I have changed my mind!”

“You gave me your word, Severus. And while we are talking about services you owe me, I thought you agreed to keep a close eye on our young Slytherin friend?”

Snape looked angry, mutinous. Dumbledore sighed. “Come to my office tonight, Severus, at eleven, and you shall not complain that I have no confidence in you. . . ”

They were back in Dumbledore’s office, the windows dark, and Fawkes sat silent as Snape sat quite still, as Dumbledore walked around him, talking. “Harry must not know, not until the last moment, not until it is necessary, otherwise how could he have the strength to do what must be done?”

“But what must he do?”

“That is between Harry and me. Now listen closely, Severus. There will come a time—after my death—do not argue, do not interrupt! There will come a time when Lord Voldemort will seem to fear for the life of his snake.”

“For Nagini?” Snape looked astonished.

“Precisely. If there comes a time when Lord Voldemort stops sending that snake forth to do his bidding, but keeps it safe beside him under magical protection, then, I think, it will be safe to tell Harry.”

“Tell him what?”

Dumbledore took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Tell him that on the night Lord Voldemort tried to kill him, when Lily cast her own life between them as a shield, the Killing Curse rebounded upon Lord Voldemort, and a fragment of Voldemort’s soul was blasted apart from the whole, and latched itself onto the only living soul left in that collapsed building. Part of Lord Voldemort lives inside Harry, and it is that which gives him the power of speech with snakes, and a connection with Lord Voldemort’s mind that he has never understood. And while that fragment of soul, unmissed by Voldemort, remains attached to and protected by Harry, Lord Voldemort cannot die.”

“So the boy. . . the boy must die?” asked Snape quite calmly. Hermione choked on her tears as the events of the last battle ran through her mind.

“And Voldemort himself must do it, Severus. That is essential.”

Another long silence. Then Snape said, “I thought. . . all those years. . . that we were protecting him for her. For Lily.”

“We have protected him because it has been essential to teach him, to raise him, to let him try his strength,” said Dumbledore, his eyes still tight shut. “Meanwhile, the connection between them grows ever stronger, a parasitic growth. Sometimes I have thought he suspects it himself. If I know him, he will have arranged matters so that when he does set out to meet his death, it
will truly mean the end of Voldemort.”

Dumbledore opened his eyes. Snape looked horrified.

“You have kept him alive so that he can die at the right moment?”

“Don’t be shocked, Severus. How many men and women have you watched die?”

“Lately, only those whom I could not save,” said Snape. He stood up. “You have used me.”

“Meaning?”

“I have spied for you and lied for you, put myself in mortal danger for you. Everything was supposed to be to keep Lily Potter’s son safe. Now you tell me you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter—”

“But this is touching, Severus,” said Dumbledore seriously. “Have you grown to care for the boy, after all?”

“For him?” shouted Snape. “Expecto Patronum!”

From the tip of his wand burst the silver doe. She landed on the office floor, bounded once across the office, and soared out of the window. Dumbledore watched her fly away, and as her silvery glow faded he turned back to Snape, and his eyes were full of tears.

“After all this time?”

“Always,” said Snape.

And the scene shifted. Now, Hermione saw Snape talking to the portrait of Dumbledore behind his desk.

“You will have to give Voldemort the correct date of Harry’s departure from his aunt and uncle’s,” said Dumbledore. “Not to do so will raise suspicion, when Voldemort believes you so well informed. However, you must plant the idea of decoys; that, I think, ought to ensure Harry’s safety. Try Confunding Mundungus Fletcher. And Severus, if you are forced to take part in the chase, be sure to act your part convincingly. . . I am counting upon you to remain in Lord Voldemort’s good books as long as possible, or Hogwarts will be left to the mercy of the Carrows. . . ”

Now Snape was head to head with Mundungus in an unfamiliar tavern, Mundungus’s face looking curiously blank, Snape frowning in concentration.

“You will suggest to the Order of the Phoenix,” Snape murmured, “that they use decoys. Polyjuice Potion. Identical Potters. It’s the only thing that might work. You will forget that I have suggested this. You will present it as your own idea. You understand?”

“I understand,” murmured Mundungus, his eyes unfocused. . .

Now Hermione was flying alongside Snape on a broomstick through a clear dark night: He was accompanied by other hooded Death Eaters, and ahead were Lupin and a Harry who was really George. . .A Death Eater moved ahead of Snape and raised his wand, pointing it directly at Lupin’s back.

“Sectumsempra!” shouted Snape.

But the spell, intended for the Death Eater’s wand hand, missed and hit George instead—

And next, Snape was kneeling in Sirius’s old bedroom. Tears were dripping from the end of his hooked nose as he read the old letter from Lily. The second page carried only a few words: could ever have been friends with Gellert Grindelwald. I think her mind’s going, personally! Lots of love, Lily

Snape took the page bearing Lily’s signature, and her love, and tucked it inside his robes. Then he ripped in two the photograph he was also holding, so that he kept the part from which Lily laughed, throwing the portion showing James and Harry back onto the floor, under the chest of drawers. . .

And now Snape stood again in the headmaster’s study as Phineas Nigellus came hurrying into his portrait.

“Headmaster! They are camping in the Forest of Dean! The Mudblood—”

“Do not use that word!”

“—the Granger girl, then, mentioned the place as she opened her bag and I heard her!”

“Good. Very good!” cried the portrait of Dumbledore behind the headmaster’s chair. “Now, Severus, the sword! Do not forget that it must be taken under conditions of need and valor—and he must not know that you give it! If Voldemort should read Harry’s mind and see you acting for him—”

“I know,” said Snape curtly. He approached the portrait of Dumbledore and pulled at its side. It swung forward, revealing a hidden cavity behind it from which he took the sword of Gryffindor.

“And you still aren’t going to tell me why it’s so important to give Potter the sword?” said Snape as he swung a traveling cloak over his robes.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Dumbledore’s portrait. “He will know what to do with it. And Severus, be very careful, they may not take kindly to your appearance after George Weasley’s mishap—”

Snape turned at the door.

“Don’t worry, Dumbledore,” he said coolly. “I have a plan. . . ”

And Snape left the room.

Hermione raised her head up out of the Pensieve and sat down hard on the floor, her shoulders shaking. She sobbed with grief and could not staunch the flow of her tears.

“Now, Miss Granger,” Snape said, defeated in his bed. “Now you may call me a monster.”

***
A/N: A lot of the Pensieve memories you will recognize from "The Prince's Tale" in Deathly Hallows. I took them mostly verbatim. If you skipped over them here, though, shame on you! You'll have to go reread them because I added one or two! Sheesh! Anyways, those come directly from Ms. Rowling and are not my creation. Except the bits that I changed to make them fit my story.

(I hope this one was long enough for you, pepperimp. )

Feedback is greatly, greatly appreciated.

Chapter 8

Hermione quieted. Snape had his eyes closed. Expecting her to be gone, he barely opened them, but there she still sat; silent on the floor. He closed his eyes again, slightly annoyed at her persistent presence.

“How do you do it, Sir?” she whispered.

Snape ignored her.

Hermione rose slightly onto her knees beside his bed. “Sir? How do you do it?”

“Do what?” he grumbled.

“Read other’s thoughts so well. It’s not like any Legilemency I’ve ever read about. And how do you make your voice heard in my head?”

He opened his eyes and looked at her, debating. He merely wanted left alone. How many of her questions would he have to endure and how many of his answers would she suffer before she left him in peace.

“I am gifted in all areas of Legilemency and Occlumency, Miss Granger. The skill is merely a mutation of the Legilemency spell. Much more difficult.”

“Have you always been able to do it?”

He huffed a laugh. “Of course not. As with everything, it requires practice, patience, and determination.”

“But, sir,” she continued,” even Dumbledore could not do what you do.”

“Do not be so easily misled. Because Dumbledore chose not to invade the minds of others it does not mean that he could not.”

Hermione shook her head stubbornly, increasing his irritation. “And Voldemort!” He winced as she said the name, making her wish she’d used one of his euphemisms. “Surely he could not do it.”

“It is a talent, Miss Granger, that took me years to perfect and refine. It has, on more than one occasion, meant the difference between my life and my death.”

“Then it is Dark Magic?”

He raised himself up a little as a small wicked smile appeared on his face. “Are you saying you would like to learn the talent if it is?”

Affronted, Hermione averted her gaze. “No! Of course not! I was merely curious.”

Snape settled back in his bed. “It is only Dark Magic when a Dark Wizard uses it for dark purposes.”

“Do you often invade people’s minds, then?”

He paused and regarded her. “Only when it suits my purposes. It may have escaped your notice, Miss Granger, but I am not an entirely ethical man.” He sighed heavily. “Miss Granger,” he said. She looked at him again. “Why are you still here?”

She shook her head. “Why would I leave?”

He motioned toward the Pensieve. “You have seen me at my worst, and I daresay it is worse than you ever imagined. Why are you not running for the door?” As an afterthought he added, “Why did you save me at all.”

Hermione’s forehead wrinkled as she concentrated, wanting very much to answer him as honestly as possible. “I don’t know what made me want to save you. I couldn’t leave your body where it fell as it seemed so cold and uncaring for anyone to do, and when I found you alive . . . I don’t know, sir. I needed to try. For myself as much as for you.” She took a breath. “I do not think you are a monster. Yes, you’ve done terrible things in your past, but I believe a man is made of more than his past. Through all of your tragedies, Professor, you have remained strong – and you have done what was right in the end.”

“Born out of selfishness,” he interjected.

“Born out of your heart.”

“You would exonerate me from my crimes?”

“Haven’t you suffered, sir? Haven’t you paid more than your due?”

He closed his eyes, not liking the way her answers warmed his cold heart. “You would so easily absolve a murderer?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I want to.”

“I am weary, Miss Granger. Do not feel the need to remain in this house, I am sure to recover on my own.”

“I will stay and see it through, sir. I will see you better.”

He gave a slight nod, and she understood herself to be dismissed. Hermione rose from the floor and went to the Pensieve. Carefully, she collected each strand of memory and placed it back into the phial. She put the Pensieve back on its proper shelf and put the phial by Snape’s bed.

Hermione retrieved her bag from her room and quietly went down the stairs. She slumped into the armchair, overwhelmed with all she had seen and heard. Her tears spent, she merely sat and breathed. What she needed right now was a friend.

Hermione left the little house in Spinner’s End and Apparated to Hogsmeade. She walked into the Three Broomsticks and sat at a table in the corner. Madam Rosmerta smiled at her and brought her a butterbeer. Hermione thanked her. She reached up to her ear and took out the match of the earring she had given to Ron. Smiling to herself, she gave the tiny silver stud a tap with her wand. She placed it on the table in front of her and waited, more excited to see Ron than she could say. She just needed the slightest bit of human affection; to be enveloped in his arms and to be told that she mattered. She knew she could count on Ron for that, and she would love him for it.

She sat quietly, not wanting to draw attention to herself, but she could hear the whispers around her. They knew who she was, and for her part in defeating Voldemort, she was a little bit of a celebrity. Nothing near Harry, of course, but people recognized her and respected her a little. A surge of pride went through her as she thought her name might be added to some of the wizarding books that she read so regularly. She had a place in history!

Through her thoughts, she waited patiently for Ron. Her butterbeer drained, she debated signaling Rosmerta for another. She decided to wait. She took the earring into her hand again and gave it a firmer tap of her wand. “Where are you, Ron?” she murmured to it.

Determined to give him the benefit of the doubt, she took out her bag and committed to waiting. From its magical folds, she retrieved one of the black leather bound books that she had brought from Snape’s house. She turned it over in her hands before she opened it. The book had the slightly musty, earthy smell of an old worn-out thing, and it comforted her.

The book contained information on herbs, and it surprised her. She knew that Snape would be well versed in potion ingredients, but she hadn’t expected such extensive notes on practical uses for almost every plant she’d studied in school. Snape explored their purposes far beyond the depth that they’d learned in Herbology. Neville would love this book!

An hour passed. Hermione had finished the book, which wasn’t completely full, and had gone on to take notes on the more interesting of her discoveries. She would have to ask Professor Snape if she could borrow the book for Neville. She shifted a bit in her seat, uncomfortable for having sat in such a hard surface for so long. She looked again at her earring, lying forgotten on the table. Ron wasn’t coming.

Hermione huffed a little in annoyance. She had expected Ron to keep her earring close to him at all times. She should have known better. She should have given him a larger token. He’d probably lost the earring, and now she had no way to quickly contact him. She could use the Floo Network, she supposed, but that would give too much of her location away. She could send him an owl, but now she hardly felt like it. She truly was alone. She laughed sardonically as she headed out of The Three Broomsticks. She was actually looking forward to returning to Severus Snape.

***
Hermione slumped into the house on Spinner’s End and plopped her bag down on the table before she fell into the armchair. Boys! They were so stupid! To think that earlier she had actually been looking forward to seeing Ron, and now she could barely stand the thought of him. Frustrated tears formed in her eyes, and it was all she could do not to cry out in a rage. She took several deep breaths to calm her emotions, and they went from anger to sadness. Ron’s ignorance stung her more than she could fathom; it injured her in the very core of her being. And, honestly, she hated herself for being angry with him. She had left him. She had abandoned him at his moment of need, and now he was doing the same. She buried her head in her hands and wept profusely into them with raking sobs.

Severus lay very still on his bed. He heard the emotional torrent of Hermione down the stairs, and he steeled himself against it. He refused to be taken in. There was nothing so pitiable and so infuriating than a woman’s helpless tears, and he would do anything to make them stop. He covered his ears with his hands as anger lighted his face. When would the girl learn not to put her trust into man! Unable to stand the feeling of impotence as she opened her soul down his stairs, he called out to her in her mind.

Miss Granger, we must talk.

“Get out of my head!” came her spirited shout. He almost smiled.

Hermione quickly stomped up the stairs, knowing she was behaving childishly and not caring one bit. She huffed into his room, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and glared at him.

Taking a moment to conquer the dark amusement her feistiness gave him, he finally continued, “There are things we must discuss.”

“Teach me to do that,” Hermione insisted from her annoyed stance by the door.

Snape blinked. “I do not think that wise.”

“I want to learn it.”

“It is not a necessary skill any longer.”

“But it comes in handy,” she countered doggedly.

“You are not even practiced in Legilimency. It is unwise to try it.”

“That’s only because no one has ever taught me Legilimency or Occlumency! I am a fast learner.”

That he knew from experience. “There are other teachers.”

“You are the best.”

“You are rapidly getting on my nerves.”

“Just consider it, please,” she said with a sigh as she moved out of the doorway and closer to his bed. “We are here until you are entirely healed, and there isn’t much left to pass the time. It may be several days before you are well enough for physical activity, and while we wait, it might as well be beneficial to us.”

“I fail to see how this scheme will benefit me in the least,” he growled.

Hermione gave him a knowing look. “It will give you something else to occupy your thoughts.”

He looked away from her. “Very well. We begin tomorrow for I am too weak to try today.”

A triumphant gleam etched onto her face. “Thank you, sir!” She leaned over him to examine his neck. “Let me reapply the Dittany. Are you in pain? Would more Murtlap be soothing?”

“Yes.”

Hermione busied herself preparing another compress for his neck. She was completely amazed that the scars were already beginning to fade. She traced one lightly with her finger and felt his sharp intake of breath.

She withdrew her hand after pressing the cloth firmly to his scars and saw him relax instantly. “Sir,” she asked hesitantly, “what did you want to talk about?”

He closed his eyes as her relaxed back into the bed. “It is not so important. We will discuss it another time.”

“Very well,” she said and left the room.

How strange Severus felt. How infuriating that this girl could soothe and comfort him in a way no one else had been able to. It had been years since anyone had touched him out of kindness, and it was more than his black soul could bear. He was cursed, and he knew it whether Hermione Granger could see it or not. What would it feel like to be cared for by another person?

Hermione descended the stairs with more lightness in her step. Oh, she knew he was only going to teach her this skill to shut her up and not because he wanted to, but it didn’t matter. She was an insatiable learner, and she was excited to begin. She went down to her bag in the parlor and rifled through it a bit. She pulled out a thick book titled “Mesmerizing Minds” which gave overviews of most mind magic. Hermione had read it before, of course, but she took more interest in it now. She wanted to know as much of the theory behind the spells as she could, so she made herself comfortable on the couch, summoned a blanket, wrapped her feet underneath it, and began to read.

A few hours later, Hermione closed the book and stretched her arms over her head. The information she had read in the book regarding mind magic had been interesting, but it would remain to be seen whether it would be practical. She sat up straight on the couch and tried to empty her thoughts as much as possible. It was more difficult than she had suspected, and she suddenly felt a little guilty for hounding Harry about it so much during their fifth year.

The book had suggested creating “safe thoughts” to automatically train the mind to recall when threatened by Occlumency. These thoughts were to be neutral with no emotional significance. She knew that counted out her family and friends – and anything she’d ever done with them. Perhaps she could think of a favorite book? She recalled her favorite passages from “A Winter’s Tale” and ran them over and over through her mind. Satisfied that these thoughts could garner no negative repercussions if her mind were invaded, she left the couch. Professor Snape expected her to be weak and unprepared. She hoped to prove him wrong.

***
Severus took deep breaths in and out, fighting the stinging pain in his neck. Hermione had successfully closed the wounds, and the poison was out of his body, but the healing burned. The Dittany soothed his skin, and the concoction she continued to rub into the scars cooled the sting, but it never removed it entirely. If he were being honest with himself, it was his soul that was wounded beyond repair. What was there left in the world to live for? When Voldemort hat returned, his life had had a purpose. Dumbledore had guided him and confided in him; and he breathed to keep Lily’s son alive. Now that threat was past. Perhaps if Snape had been a different man, he’d have a reason to struggle through the daily stresses of life. If he had friends, he’d have someone to relieve his pain.

As it was, Snape was alone.

Something crashed in the kitchen below him, followed by a curse.

The corners of his mouth twitched. Not entirely alone, then. For reasons that escaped him, Hermione Granger had suffered his presence and done all she could to heal him and ease his suffering. A burning smell made its way up to his nose with a billow of soft black smoke, and he grimaced. The smell soon dissipated, and he knew she had magically removed it. What was that infernal girl doing down there? Hermione’s ministrations to him were the first real touches of kindness he’d received in a very long time. Since Lily, really.

He closed his eyes as he recalled Lily’s face. Perfect. How stupid he had been as a boy to let the esteem of lesser men mean more to him than her opinion. If he could do it over, he knew he would do it differently. She might never have loved him, he knew, but he wouldn’t have pushed her away. Lily Evans had been beautiful inside and out, and he had never deserved her.

“Professor,” came a soft call from the doorway. Snape opened his eyes and sat up in bed.

“Enter,” he said.

“I’ve made you some broth. I know it won’t taste like much, but I didn’t want to cause your stomach any upset. You haven’t eaten in quite a while.” She came into the room bearing a wooden tray with a steaming bowl and a glass of water. “I have bread in the oven, as well.” She scrunched up her nose. “The first loaf burnt. Your oven is quite old, you know.”

He inclined his head to her, and Hermione set the tray down on his lap. He looked at the unappetizing tray and felt gratitude swell through him. His cheeks grew pink, and he turned his head away from her. Why must she make him feel like he was human? Like he mattered in the least!

Hermione saw him look away and wondered what she had done wrong this time. The timer pinged from the kitchen, and she hurried away to retrieve the bread.

Snape didn’t know what was going on inside him. He felt something stirring in his soul for this girl who had sacrificed so much to save him, but he didn’t know what it was. It infuriated him that she was able to arouse feelings that he had long since buried. He was Severus Snape and he needed no one! But, try as he might to convince himself of that mantra, he knew it was a lie. He needed a friend. And, fight as he might against it, he cared for Hermione’s well-being.

Hermione returned and gave him a piece of soft, hot bread. “There you are, Professor.”

“Thank you,” he simply said. She waited expectantly. Bemused, he turned to face her. “Are you going to wait until I have eaten the whole of it?”

She blushed. “No, sorry. I just wanted to make sure it was all right for you. I could try to make something else for you, if you’d rather, but as I said, I really didn’t want to upset your stomach.”

He was touched by her thoughtfulness. “It is fine, Miss Granger.” He picked up the spoon and tasted the broth. It burned his throat pleasantly as he swallowed. The liquid, though bland, was not as bad as he had feared. She had seasoned it to give it a sense of flavor. He tore off a bit of bread and dipped it in the broth then swallowed that, too. His stomach cramped from the unfamiliar feel of food. He grimaced.

Hermione reached out and laid her hand on his arm. “Professor! Are you okay? What happened?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. It is fine.”

“Just eat slowly, sir,” she pleaded, “until your body is used to food again.”

“I am perfectly able to feed myself, Miss Granger,” he croaked at her.

She scowled at him. “I’m just trying to be helpful.” This man was infuriating! It didn’t matter what she did, she would never please him! She sighed heavily. “I’ll leave you to your meal, then. Perhaps, if you feel up to it, you can walk a bit after you’ve eaten. We need to get you moving around.” She turned to leave.

He swallowed another spoonful of broth, almost sorry for snapping at her. “Miss Granger,” he said, causing her to pause at his door, “are you not eating?”

His question threw her. “My meal is in the kitchen.”

Snape’s face looked tormented. “Would you care to join me?” he all but forced out.

She smiled at him. “I have no wish to annoy you with my presence, sir.” If she weren’t mistaken, his face actually fell a little as she said it.

Snape had been stupid. Of course she didn’t want to eat with him. He must have mistaken her pity for kindness. He deserved nothing less for allowing his emotions to be open to someone.

“But, if you’d like company,” she continued slowly. “I would like to be . . ..” She paused, debating what she had meant to say. She did not want to utter something that she didn’t mean. It would be too cruel.

He raised an eyebrow and tried to coax it out of her. “You would like to be what?”

She dropped her hands to her side as she sighed. The man was harsh, vindicative, and infuriating; but she had seen his compassion and had known his honesty. Everyone deserved kindness and even a bit of understanding. “I would like to be your friend, sir.”

Snape shifted uncomfortably, not willing to show how relieved her words had made him. “I do not have friends, Miss Granger. I hardly know what to do with one.”

“A friend is someone who cares about you; someone who listens, understands, and supports you. Someone who tells you when you’re being stupid. Someone who knows the best and the worst of you; and loves you anyway. Someone who enjoys your company and wants to share everything with you. A friend is someone who loves you for yourself and cares about you. It’s someone you can joke with, laugh with, cry with, rant with . It’s someone who will offer a tender ear or words of advice. A true friend will be whatever you need him to be.”

“That is a high order.” Snape closed his eyes, wondering if he’d ever shared that type of friendship with anyone. “No one can live up to that.”

“Dumbledore was your friend.”

Snape grunted. “Dumbledore tolerated me.”

She shook her head as she conjured a chair and her meal in front of her. “Dumbledore respected you. And Dumbledore knew all of you.” She sat with the tray in her lap.

“Dumbledore was a great man, Miss Granger. I am eternally grateful to him for all he did for me.” Severus eyed her as she began to eat. He toyed with his broth, swirling it with his spoon. “Why?” he asked her quietly. “Why would you want to be a friend to me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked in turn.

“Having suffered through all of my classes, I find it hard to imagine that you’d want to willingly spend time with me.”

She smiled at leveled him with a sarcastic glare. “Having spent time with you in your classes, I can’t think of any reason why I would not want to befriend someone who was so caring, thoughtful, and considerate.” She paused for a moment and sobered. “Why were you so cruel?”

“It was never my job to coddle you. It was my job to make you the best wizards and witches you could be. Why should I show you kindness in my classroom? The world will not show you any kindness.”

“You’re not as mean as you’d like me to believe,” she stated matter-of-factly.

He almost smiled. “I assure you, Miss Granger, I am every bit as cold as I appear.”

She laid her hand on his arm. “Then I am sorry for you.”

He shrugged her off and continued eating. After finishing, he pushed the tray down. “Thank you, Miss Granger. I should rest if you are determined to force me to walk later.”

She flicked her wand and the dishes and tray disappeared. “Of course. I’ll return in about an hour.” He nodded his head. “If we are to be friends, you should try calling me Hermione.”

“Then I suppose you should call me Severus, in return.”

She nodded. “Prof – er – Severus?” His mouth twitched and she shook her head, irritated with herself. This would definitely take some getting used to. “May I send one of your books to Neville Longbottom? I’ve been reading them, and I’ve found one that I think he would love. Your insights into Herbology are quite unique, and he’s –“ Snape held up a hand to silence her.

“Take whatever you’d like.”

“I’ll have him send it back, of course.”

“There is no need. If you believe it will be beneficial for him, then by all means, give it to him. I have no need of it.”

She smiled, and Snape felt a strange sense of joy in offering this gift. “Thank you, Severus!”

“It is my pleasure.” He seared her with a look, his eyes half squinted. “Hermione,” he tested, drawing her name out, unused to referring to anyone so familiarly, “I trust that as my friend, you will inform me when I am behaving like a horrible git?”

She smiled. “I am honor bound to it! And you, in turn, will have to tell me when I am being an insufferable know-it-all?”

He sighed dramatically. “Then we shall never have a moment’s peace between us, shall we?”

She laughed as she went down the steps, the musical lilt of her laughter thawing the frozen confines of his dark heart.
****

A/N: Thanks for your patience with this chapter! I had some technical difficulties! I tried to convey a lot of emotions with this chapter - the feelings of a dawning friendship that isn't easily entered into. Some people can make friends quite easily, but for Severus - it is a major step - and not one he's taken in decades! For him, it would be more emotional. I don't want you to read this chapter thinking that it's going to turn into a SHIP, because it's not. I wanted to convey the emotions, and I realize that some of it might lean toward the "shippy" aspect, but I promise you it's not going there and this chapter is not meant to make you think that it will. What I'm offering Snape and Hermione is a friendship based on respect and understanding - and it involves deeply caring for the other person. His attitude and demeanor are softening towards her as he starts to willingly open up his life to her, not because he has any romantic aspirations or thoughts of her. I hope that was understood.

Thanks for reading! Please leave me your feedback and keep my spirits up!