Stay with me
There was blood.
So much blood, it felt surreal.
Hermione watched at the blood seeping out of that horrible wound; at the light, dimming from his eyes.
Severus, her soulmate, her husband, was dying. The ivy mark on her wrist burned, indicating that her other half was in danger, but she could see that clear as day.
He was handing his tears, dropped in a small vial, to a dumbfounded, shaken Harry. The last proof of his innocence, given to the boy that was meant to save the world.
But as Severus handed that bottle, his eyes, slightly unfocused, were turned on her.
“Go, see those memories”, she urged Harry, who still didn’t know what to do with himself. “Ron, quickly, go with him. I’ll meet you in a moment.”
The boys would protest; but the way they shut their mouths and left told her that they saw something in her that couldn’t be disputed.
And then, she was kneeling into Severus’ blood, pulling him into her lap. He was trembling, and she could see there was not a lot of time left.
Her hands shook so hard as she pulled her enchanted bag and started rummaging through it; Essence of Dittany, blood replenisher, bezoar –so many things he had secretly given her while she was on the run, to assist her in case she needed it.
Nothing seemed to work.
“You’re wasting your time,” came his voice, feeble. “Go to Potter.”
“Fuck this, Severus!” Hermione snapped. Then, she remembered: her husband had slipped her an enchanted needle along with several other provisions. It may come in handy if Potter is seriously wounded, he’d said, and the witch had kept it hidden, waiting for the moment she would have to use it. This item was blood-bound to the wounded it was used upon, and it was rumoured that it could heal someone who is in the verge of death. So, she kept it for the final battle, for her best friend, the future saviour of them all.
But as she looked at Severus, lying on her lap, she decided this was the moment she needed to use it. He might get angry at her; she knew how hard it was to obtain that needle, how sensitive it was at stitching a severe wound, binding with the wounded’s magic. Yet, she knew it: she needed him alive. Needed to see him again when this was all over.
She’d deal with Harry’s wounds if they occurred in some other way: but she couldn’t leave this man die.
“I love you,” she murmured, as she used the enchanted needle in order to stitch his wound, with hands so shaky she was afraid she’d fail him. “Please live, so I can tell you when you’re awake.”
With every stitch she made upon his mangled skin, the mark on Hermione’s wrist ceased aching so much, and she breathed in relief. The worst was now over.
When she finished stitching him up and his breath returned to normal, she cast all the protective charms she could think of and then rushed out to meet Harry, as things escalated to their crescendo.
They weren’t done yet, she thought as she ran back. He’d live to see another day; she’d be there to tell him how happy she was about it.