Part I
The metallic tang of Hermione’s galleon lingers on her lips, mingling with the coppery scent of blood permeating the grounds of Hogwarts. With her wand in her pocket and the battle finally over, she needed something to fidget with as she, Harry, and Ron regrouped in an alcove off of the Great Hall.
There was no time to process their conversation. Narcissa Malfoy had saved Harry in the Forbidden Forest. Remus and Tonks had died, Teddy was now Andromeda’s ward and Fred…
So many were now dead.
She was numb by the time Harry explained the memories that proved Severus Snape had been on their side all along.
A leader of the Light, shrouded in the shadows. A spy until the very end.
Except Harry distinctly remembered that his portrait had not materialised in the Headmaster’s office. Hermione immediately concluded that he must have been alive when they left him in the Shrieking Shack.
Guilt wells in her chest as her disillusioned boot catches on an overgrown root, and she realises that she has finally arrived at the Whomping Willow. Taking a deep breath, she casts a quick tergeo and levitates a twig to press into the knot at the base of the tree.
All that is left for her is to go in.
Mud mixes with blood as she limps to her Professor, a man who no longer cut the intimidating figure she knew. She’s stricken by how human he looks, his hair limp with blood and his wand in his hand, how peaceful he seems with his eyes closed and his skin more pallid than she has ever seen.
A diagnostic blinks red all over, and when she presses her finger to the side of his neck that wasn’t torn through by Nagini’s fangs, she feels a thready pulse.
Unconscious, but not dead yet.
He’s still alive.
Waving her wand, she summons her patronus and sends her otter to Harry and Ron for help.
It’s no use. She’s no use.
His breath is shallow and his pulse more thready. If she reaches for his hand, she knows it will be cold in hers.
Most of his blood surrounds her, seeping into the floorboards and the knees of her pants. He could barely swallow the bezoar she gave him, and using dittany closed the bigger parts of the gurgling wound but she didn’t have enough to cover it all…
She doesn’t know what to do. Her anchoring spell isn’t holding, and the draw on her magic is draining. She contemplates using Muggle CPR on him, but even with her limited knowledge of it, she knows he will continue to get weaker. He’s lost too much blood, and the venom in his veins was steadily killing him.
She is wondering what would happen if she summons a vial of Blood-Replenishing Potion when his chest stops moving.
“No!”
She presses her hands together over his heart and pushes. His airway is clear from where she laid him flat on the ground, and she’s doing as much as she can for his circulation. It seems that it is not enough, because he isn’t breathing.
His skin is pale, and his lips part.
Severus Snape could not die.
She couldn’t bear another person dying, not today. Not anymore, and never again, not if she could help it.
Not even her most hated Professor, who was absolutely vile to her in the limited interactions she had with him. She knows now that he had a reason to be vicious to her and her friends, and after all he’d done, he was lying there, dying for her and the Wizarding World, having done his utmost to protect them until the very end.
His life was in her hands, and she’d be damned if she didn’t give him the very air she breathed.
Decision made, she pinches his nose shut and lowers her mouth to his.
—
She loses track of how many times she alternates between chest compressions and breathing for him. The more she gives, the more she knows that she’s losing him. She can feel it. He’s still alive, but it’s not enough.
Would anything she does ever be enough?
A flash of light pierces the doorway from whence she came, and Harry’s stag circles them on the floor. His voice is strained as he says, “I’m bringing Madam Pomfrey. Do what you can to hold on, we’re on our way.”
Her breath hitches as her arms start to burn. There are no spells she can think of, no potions to give him so he could hang on for a little while longer.
A muffled thump sounds loudly, and she starts. Five minutes hadn’t passed, so the presence of someone else in the secret passage of the Whomping Willow could only mean danger. Scrambling for her wand, she points it upwards and shouts, “ Protego Maxima!”
The spell rises, then fizzles out.
The intruder is already too close to the perimeter that the spell would have covered.
Hermione glances down at her disillusioned form, knowing that if she casts the same spell on Professor Snape, she would not be able to see him until the threat was dealt with. A threat that could just as easily harm him if he was visible, now that his position as a double agent had been exposed to Death Eaters and Order members alike.
Just as she stands to assume a defensive duelling position, her wand flies from her hand, and the sneering face of Rodolphus Lestrange emerges from the darkness and waves his wand. She sees her hands come into view and knows that he can see her, just as she can now see him.
“Hello, mudblood.”
Hermione lifts her chin in the face of Bellatrix Lestrange’s husband. Her scar twinges, itchy and painful, and she clenches her jaw, aware of Professor Snape’s body in the periphery.
He follows her line of sight and smirks. “Come to save the traitor, have you?”
“Have you come to kill him?” she asks.
He scoffs, a twitchy grin pulling the side of his mouth. “Just on my way out, but that’s no business of yours, mudblood. You being here means I will get the pleasure of avenging my Bella—”
Freezing, Hermione tries not to succumb to the overwhelming memory of her recent torture. The sensations are ingrained in her mind’s eye: Bellatrix’s blood-soaked sleeves, her hair-raising cackle, the cold tip of her silver knife cutting through skin—
She shakes her head to glance at her attacker, who takes a step forward. Her fear must have shown on her face, because he smiles fully.
“I’ll enjoy putting you in your place with the rest of your filthy kind. As for your dear Professor—”
Her heart misses a beat when he raises his wand. Before knowing the spell that’s on his lips, she jumps between him and the man she came to save.
A blinding flash of light hits her heart, and the world as she knows it is no more.
—
His fingers twitch, first his index, slightly crooked, then the others in consequence. The ether is thinner than blood, but thicker than water, and he doesn’t know what to make of where he is.
Of who he is, floating in the cool darkness.
It’s peaceful here, safe in its emptiness of threats, of the lack of his familiar pain.
Severus, if he still existed within the parameters of his soul’s lifework, feels himself flutter as he turns his back on the light. In this seemingly endless place, however long ago he first opened his eyes, he keeps sinking. Heavy and fast, he swims further and further, the first hours agonising. The controlled fear he knew was long gone, and indeed, he distantly remembers his one constant companion. While there’s no joy or hope either, he is scarcely acquainted with them and does not miss their presence now.
He cannot discern his skin from the weightless darkness. Occasionally, if he turns this way and that, he can see others. Souls lit, sinking like he still does, falling into the netherworld. They plummet like stones, the waves and ripples thick and violent. Other times, they drift past him almost serenely.
He wonders where he’s going, because still nothing hurts.
Aware of an unclouded clarity in his mind that is unprecedented, he is relieved. In the absence of his innumerable worries and plans, the strict dictation over his facial expressions and his words, he is oddly alone in his mind.
Lonely in spirit. Solitary in soul.
Then, something changes… a warm current eddies through the cool, a bright light growing in the dark. Was it falling, or was he floating?
He couldn’t tell. Willing his eyes to narrow, his effort to think as he used to is futile. Direction and distance hold no sway here.
Oh, but he wants to know where it’s going. He yearns toward that vivid burst of light, craving its warmth, with everything that remains of Severus Snape.
And the incandescent spark answers, drawing nearer, and the darkness surrounding him recedes. He sees her, a folded form of a familiar woman. The safety he feels can shelter many, and he is a protective man. His fingers connect to arms, and he reaches out to catch the still shining soul to draw her against him.
Her curls brush against his nose, tingling against his lips. As she stills, he pulls away to look at her.
Hermione Granger, her hair a halo around her sleeping face.
Oh, but she is familiar. She is protective like him, glorious in her loyalty and vicious in her ire.
His eyes rip from her lax expression to the lightning-shaped scar over her heart, and something he forgot bubbles in his chest.
Anger. Rage.
He let himself into this place of safety, of inaction and surrender, content to spend a lifetime in suspension. Safe in the dark waters so that other people, better people, people like her, could have their time in the light.
To shine in the glow of a bright, new dawn.
For her, of all the ones he kept safe, to be here, with him? He cradles her against his chest, and her legs brush against his. He kicks, feeling the coolness flow around him and part.
There is an unreachable surface above him, distant and tenebrous, and he kicks again. Over and over, the soul in his arms grows heavier, but he clutches it closer to him and propels against the pull to the shadows. The ever-shifting surface is closer, but his legs ache and his limbs weaken as blood flow returns to his muscles and his lungs burn within his breast.
He screams, remembering his need for air.
Reflections flicker and shadows fade. Colours become discernible, the accompanying sounds distinct, and with the last of everything he has, he shatters the shimmering barrier.
He falls upward, his soul melding with his body.
It’s the opposite of what he knows. Bright. Loud. Painful.
The vaulted ceilings of Hogwarts brighten into existence. Every blink is bleary, and a sharp prickle of pain encircles his neck, growing in severity until it hurts.
It hurts so much and he struggles for air.
A rattling whistle sounds loudly, and he realises that it is coming from him. The crushing weight sitting on his chest keeps getting heavier and heavier, and he worries about the deep sense of foreboding that surrounds him. He tries to move in his bed, his fingers flexing and reaching for his wand, yet his arms remain at his side.
Moving his head to the side yields even more discomfort, and he closes his eyes in agony.
He’s so tired, and everything hurts. The pain is as strong as ever, but concentrated in places like his neck and his heart.
A lump forms in his throat as he realises that something is missing. When was the last time he felt this hollow?
It felt so lovely, floating in the soul space. A respite from the agony of his duties, day in and day out. The endless, sleepless nights.
It was a welcome change from the place that was always apprehensive of him. That’s where he is. He is home, the only true home he has ever known. A place that he loves and hates, but cannot imagine leaving no matter what happens.
A place where he is so used to pain…
He remembers the smell of his blood, soaking his robes and his hair. It is so contrary to the smell of the antiseptic that Poppy uses to disinfect the Hospital Wing.
His arms are laid over soft white sheets, a stark contrast to the scratchy wooden planks of the Shrieking Shack that splintered into his hands as he fell.
How did he survive Nagini’s deadly bite and its subsequent blood loss? If he lived, then the Dark Lord must have perished. Potter was dead… How did he not see him as he descended?
Why was the soul he carried that of Hermione Granger, and how did he awaken in the realm of the living?
Why is he warm and bandaged, bathed in the colourless rays of light breaking through the glass window panes, his soul weightless but his body heavy, something strong but riven in his chest?
Where is the soul he saved? He knows that he still holds his own— it is as twisted and dark and broken as it always was. But his light, the illumination of his journey, the catalyst to his survival… Does she live as he does?
He bites his tongue as something in his chest cracks.
Where is Hermione Granger?
—
Minerva watches Sybill’s wine glass teeter from side to side, as she drums her fingers along its stem. The sherry inside it lurches, catching the light from the candles on the wall.
“He’s awake.”
Minerva’s head jerks up from where she sits in the wingback armchair next to a high side table covered in decanters and bottles of whisky. They’re in the Divination tower, sequestering themselves in Sybill’s office, high above the earth where the magic grows thick, as they approach the witching hour.
“Are you certain?” Minerva mumbles, her tongue heavy after her imbibing.
Sybill’s eyes meet hers, as unusual as that occurrence is, and she grins. “I hate to say it, but have you ever known me to be wrong?”
She purses her lips at her partner’s nonchalant tone, contemplating her next step. She knows she needs to go to him, but…
There is much to be said between her and her dearest friend.
Sybill’s shaking hand covers hers. “Go to him. He needs you.”
“I was awful to him, Billie.” She shakes her head, ashamed. “Will he ever wish to see me again? Will he wait to hear my apology? Do you think we can…”
“He may be a changed man, but he never stopped loving you, darling. You’re his closest friend. Always have been, since the day Albus brought him back to the castle.”
Sybill’s hand squeezes hers, and she looks at the surprisingly steady hand of the woman she’s sworn to protect. “He was keeping you safe from the Dark Lord.”
“I know, but I left him to the wolves! We did not trust in him, as we’ve always done! And Albus! Albus left him out to dry, that insufferable, secretive manipulator of a wizard! How could he—”
“You need to go, my love. Severus needs to be present for this Gryffindorian display of chivalry, although he will object to how incredibly—”
“—Hufflepuff I’m being, I am familiar with the man, Sybill.”
Minerva smiles at the memory of the countless times the Head of Slytherin insulted her, always endearing himself to her with his glittering eyes and his one dimpled cheek. It was the only hint of a smile she got from him since the war started again.
Her lips tremble as she rises from her chair.
“I’ve missed him.”
Sybill gaze wanders and shifts to the dying embers blinking in the hearth. “He knows.”
—
A frantic voice, one that she’ll always respond to, speaks from afar. “Will she be alright? Will she—”
Magic tingles down her spine, sharpening to a point over her heart. “She is unharmed, Mr. Potter, just as miraculously as you were when you were a baby.”
“It was an Avada, Madam Pomfrey, she—”
She tsks, the sound grating on Hermione’s ears. “I know that, child, but you will see it with your own eyes when she wakes. Which should be… about now, according to my diagnostic.”
Harry’s voice is close to her, coming closer as he says her name. She blinks to find his familiar green eyes crinkling with a smile.
“Hey, Hermione.”
“Ha—” her voice catches and she coughs. A glass of water nudges her hand, and she drinks it all down.
“You’re in the hospital wing, Miss Granger.” Madam Pomfrey vanishes her glass, and reaches for a rack of potions on her bedside table.
“Are you ok?”
“Professor Snape…” she rasps, leaning her elbows on her pillows so she could push herself up.
“He’s alive. You saved him.”
Her curls, loose from the braid she’d twisted them into before battle, tumble over her face when she shakes her head, not believing what Harry is saying, and she sees her hand tremble as she attempts to brush them away. Harry comes to her rescue and pushes them behind her ear, cupping her cheek, his eyes darting all over her face.
“Mione, you—”
“Mr. Potter, Miss Granger is in no condition to—”
He turns his face to the floor, jaw clenching and eyes closed, and she sees dust and bits of debris still in his hair. “Please, Madam Pomfrey.”
The matron’s stern face wavers, and she nods, backing away from the bed. “Two minutes, then she is due for a dose of Dreamless Sleep.”
“I’ll give it to her myself, Madam Pomfrey.”
With a frown aimed at her potions, Harry turns back to her, his eyes even more tender than before.
“You took a Killing Curse for him,” he whispers.
Tears instantly well in her eyes, and she feels her skin pinch in her chest again. “I couldn’t just leave him, Harry!” Panic blooms in her chest. “Oh my god, Rodolphus Lestrange, he—”
Harry’s hands smooth down her arms and hold hers. “Lestrange is dead, ‘Mione. His curse rebounded off you and… he died.”
“What…” Hermione furrows her brow. “What do you mean, rebounded off me?”
Harry clears his throat, and she notices that he scratches his scar before he answers.
“You stood in front of the curse, Hermione. You sacrificed your life for his and… something... some kind of magic got activated. Dumbledore always said that my mum used ancient and powerful forces to save me…”
“I didn’t— Harry, I didn’t do anything…”
He shakes his head and falls into a stiff-backed chair, one that she’s only just noticed was next to her bed. He looks so tired, his clothes still dirty from the Battle, and she wonders what time it is. Her chest is genuinely irritating her now, and she picks at her sweater…
Only to notice she isn’t wearing her sweater, but a hospital gown, and that itch she’s scratching is, in fact, heavily bandaged.
“You have a scar now, just like mine,” he murmurs on an exhale, “because you saved Professor Snape.”
The urge to scratch at her chest intensifies, and she blinks at the discomfort. “He saved us, he saved all of us, Harry—”
“I know that,” Harry snaps, and she narrows her eyes at him. “I still can’t believe he’s a spy, even Ron— Oh god. I need to go get Ron.”
“Is he— Where is he?”
“He was with the others, seeing to the funerals… But right now… he’s with Lavender.”
Something in her chest flares up. It hurts, and she welcomes it. It’s all so clear to her now, that she and Ron would always orbit each other but never collide. Instead of finding her best friend at her side, or at least the one who kissed her in the heat of battle…
She is once again at Harry’s. Alive, like she never thought she would be. Like she purposefully went out of her way not to be—
“Hermione?”
She’s crying. Her face is hot and the flush in her chest is overtaking the heat, and Harry’s face is blurry but close. He’s holding something, a potion…
“Ron will be by soon, I promise.” He holds her hand, and she feels the cool press of glass against her lips. “Here, drink this, before Madam Pomfrey has my head.”
She shivers, goosebumps rising all over her skin. She recognizes the Dreamless Sleep he taught them how to brew in fifth year, but the last thing she wants is to be numb to whatever is bursting inside her. Scratching her scar would not be enough, she needs to get up. She needs to know if what she did was enough, if he survived…
“Hermione, Ron’s coming to see you soon, and you need to take your potion—”
“Not Ron, not… Professor Snape, where is… Where is he?”
She can’t see Harry’s face, but she senses his surprise at her nonchalance at Ron’s absence.
“He’s here. Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall have been looking after him.”
“Really? So he’s not—”
“He’s going to be fine,” Harry says with finality.
She lays back on her pillows, the ache constant in her chest still. In her heart. She senses something, a dark loneliness she’s always known but now feels constant. It matters not that the dawn is emerging, or that Harry is alive by her side, or that she’s supposedly alright…
Something’s wrong.
She sits up and glances at the source of her agony, where blood now seeps into the pure white gauze. It burns again, and the pain makes her want to cry out. Without really meaning to, she rips the bandage from her skin and screams.
—
According to Poppy, Hermione Granger is in the Hospital Wing, too. Just as he was, she is unconscious but on the verge of waking. She was the one who went back to the Shrieking Shack, intending to bury him but instead finding him barely alive.
The last thing he remembers is watching her leave the Shack with Potter and Weasley. After destroying The Dark Lord’s horcruxes, without anyone knowing just what the Golden Trio was up to. It was she who championed their journey, the Gryffindor who could have been a Slytherin. The friend who would die for those she was loyal to.
And for those she deemed worthy.
A friend like the friend he’s been, but never like anyone he’s had.
When Poppy and Minerva tell him of her sacrifice, he is silent. The student he constantly berated, the girl whose spirits he snuffed out time and time again, stood between him and a Death Eater.
He is astounded at her bravery, but even self-sacrifice could be selfish. And he… he once wished for peace, for a soul unweighted by debts and obligation.
Yet he could not explain his reasons for willingly carrying her soul in his arms. His gravitation towards her presence, even now.
Something proximal to his heart throbs, and he rubs his chest. All his previous pains are back, but this one… this one is new.
Noticing his movement, Minerva holds a vial to his nose, which he sniffs. Recognizing a pain reliever, he nods.
He can’t taste much anymore, with all the potions she and Poppy are forcing into him. He appreciates their attention, knows that without them, he would be friendless and incapacitated by Nagini’s venom.
A warm thumb wipes the corner of his mouth, her odd touch startling him from his thoughts.
It’s just Minnie. Minnie who is his oldest- well, his oldest living - friend. She almost killed him when the Battle started, betrayed by his duplicity… Minnie who cried at his bedside, holding his hand to her lips as she begged forgiveness- from him. It was he who had wronged them all, and especially her. That final duel between them almost had him lowering his wand and falling to the floor in surrender.
And yet, she fed him his broth, at Poppy’s instruction of a liquid diet. She waited for him to swallow his potions, swiping the side of his mouth for stray droplets with her fingers.
She does it so lovingly, despite his mistakes. His betrayal, time and time again. His mistreatment of Sybill, and the awkward reciprocation of their semblance of friendship as they got older.
The nape of his neck tingles, as though someone is watching him. The sensation is familiar, just like he used to feel when something was about to go terribly wrong.
It’s his cue to unsheath his wand from its holster, but it’s not in its usual place. Minerva straightens in her chair, but a pained scream startles them both.
“My wand— Minnie, I need my wand!”
“And just what will you do with it in your condition?” She whips the curtains around his bed, then turns to him. “Stay! Here!”
She casts a sweeping revelio before she disappears from view. Severus struggles to pull his legs over the side of the bed, the movement straining his wounds. He winces, eyes scanning for his wand, which he spots in a tray on his bedside table.
The empty vials in it crash to the floor as he loses his footing. Shards of glass puncture the soles of his feet, and in the chaos, he realises that he is on his hands and knees.
His lungs tightens again, and his eyes fill as the pain blinds him for a second. He’s too weak, and he is useless without his wand. Unable to stand, unable to defend—
“I need to see him, Harry!”
He attempts to look in the direction that the shout came from, but the shuffle of cloth above him makes him shrink, his body curling onto itself.
Harry Potter is alive, his mind whispers to him. Where is Minerva? No one should see him like this—
“Professor Snape!”
Not Minerva. Someone younger.
It comforts him that her tone of voice is not that of someone who intends to harm him.
A warm hand pushes his lank hair away from his face, and he scowls. He’s crushing glass in his fists, the pain slight when compared to the heated ache in his chest and the tear in his neck.
“Professor,” the voice whispers, relieved. “Professor.”
Who was this witch to take such liberties with him? Could she not see that he did not want anyone here? The suffocation lessens, and he inhales at the realisation that it’s her presence that eases his agony.
She continues, immune to his position. “I’m sorry, I had to see—”
It finally clicks who this voice belongs to. “Miss Granger,” he mumbles, his neck shifting horribly when he swallows.
“You’re alive, Professor, I—”
The curtain rustles behind her. He can’t see who it is, until—
“Miss Granger!” Minerva’s heels echo on the stone as she gets closer. “What is the meaning of this?”
The witch in question bows her head, her curls brushing against his exposed forehead and nose, and he unknowingly angles his face towards her. She smells like war, like she’s bled and been healed. The balsam sap scent of a wound salve permeates the air, and his chest fills with grief.
Minerva finally notices his altered form. “Severus, what happened?”
He doesn’t speak for fear of hurting himself further. It comes back to him again, her face slack in repose, her limbs unmoving in his arms. He saw her… or felt her… because she was light.
He recognises the darkness wafting from her as his.
“Miss Granger, return to your bed at once!”
“Please, Professor,” she says, her murmur inaudible but for their proximity.
It’s unclear if she is speaking to Minerva or to him, but Minerva hoists him off the floor and back onto the bed. Tutting, she vanishes the glass from the vicinity, then examines his palms.
“You foolish boy.” She turns from him and pulls Miss Granger up to sit next to him. “And you! Are you in pain? Merlin’s hat, I thought we were under attack!”
He feels her shake her head in answer.
“What is it that brought you here then? Mr. Potter said—”
“I needed to see for myself. I had to see if Professor Snape survived. It hurts—”
Minerva’s face softens as she assesses her prize student’s demeanour.
“You’re bleeding, dear.” Conjuring her feline patronus, she urges Madam Pomfrey to join them. “And you, what were you thinking, following me like that? Severus, you are in no condition to sit up, let alone duel!”
Her reprimand falls on deaf ears. Miss Granger’s left hand lays over his on the wrinkled bed linens, and his eyes fix on the bleeding slashes carved into her skin.
“She wouldn’t let me put her bandage back on.”
The Boy Who Lived stands in the space between the two curtains, flanked by a glaring Poppy Pomfrey. Both of them are dishevelled, the space beneath their eyes a sickly green-grey. Between the two of them, and Minerva’s chastisement, his discontent flares.
What a spectacle he has become. Next to him, Miss Granger flinches, and for a moment, he is sorry.
Solitude would remedy this, he knows that. It always did in the past, and so he says, “Leave.”
He draws on his stature, but he cannot stand. Dressed in a viridian robe over a flimsy hospital gown, his voice does not carry the weight that it used to. It’s raspy, almost hoarse, gravelly as it crackles up his throat. Despite his less-than-usual performance, Potter and Granger straighten, but Minerva and Poppy look thunderous.
“If you mean to refuse treatment, young man—” Poppy starts.
“I beg your pardon! I will not allow you to resume your threatening ways, Severus—” Minerva protests.
He does not look at them, because he is too tired. Too spent to object against these two powerful witches, to draw upon his usual well of anger. Instead he mutters, “Please.”
Both women fall silent, and Miss Granger’s fingers tighten over his. Potter shakes his head as he says, “Come on then, Hermione. I’ll take you back so you can sleep now.”
Granger stills. Magic hums between them, and he is alarmed at this irregularity. His awareness of their proximity is most concerning, and he needs to confirm its cause.
“I would be grateful—” he grunts to clear his throat again, “if Miss Granger would stay.”
“Severus—” Minerva begins.
Poppy pipes up, “She needs to sleep, Severus, and I need to observe her—”
“Professor Snape—” Her friend’s glowers at him, and he relishes in its familiarity.
He turns his own on them, knowing that at least he has that to push them away. “It will be but a moment.” He answers. “Now get. Out.”
—
She doesn’t notice that the others have left until his hand turns over to grip hers back. Her lips sting, bitten over and over as she braces herself for his wrath. “Professor—”
“Severus,” he interrupts, his gaze fixed on their clasped hands. “If this… magic… is what I believe it to be, then I am your Professor no longer.”
She wishes to ask all of her questions, but she is apprehensive. What little she knows of this man is worrisome, especially since her view of him is so altered after learning of his memories.
“Hermione, then.”
“Very well.”
“Can you… Can you explain what you mean? This magic…”
“Soul magic, or love magic… Whatever label you wish to give it, it matters not. We are... tethered.”
Her eyes widen, and she goes mute with horror. Something tugs in her heart, and she notices that he’s pressing his fingers into a spot on his chest.
Like something inside him hurts, too.
“Is that what this is? Is that why it hurts?”
He nods. If not for the strain between them, he would still not believe it. “Surely you know Potter’s tale.”
“Yes, I do. But a fragment of Lestrange’s soul did not latch onto you.”
“No. The Dark Lord— Voldemort’s soul was unstable, since it had been split multiple times before. Rodolphus’ was not, and so the curse simply killed him.”
“But Lily died.” He pulls his hand from hers, and she cringes, remembering that she was speaking of the woman he loves. “I’m still alive.”
With a sigh, he whispers, “You did die.”
A familiar resistance grows within her, and she opens her mouth to object.
“I saw you. I was between worlds, it seemed. All was dark, and quiet, and I sensed very little. Then I saw you, lit from within. I could not stop myself— I had to reach you.”
She gasps at his stuttering gush of words. “What do you mean, between worlds?”
“Miss— Hermione.” He swallows, but continues. “I saw others floating past me. I had no reason, and no urging, to follow any of them. I simply existed, suspended, yet when I saw you…” he halts, his statement incomplete.
“What? What happened?” She shivers, suddenly feeling the absence of his hand.
Shaking his head, his eyes find hers. They are stricken, flinty in the morning after the battle. As though he were a deer caught in headlights, waiting for her to bring him to his end.
“I brought you back,” he breathes, a rattling quake that she feels in the very bed they sit on. “And in saving you, I lived.”
She lowers her head as she thinks. Either he didn’t want to save her, or he didn’t want to survive the final battle.
She’s more scared of hearing his answer than she is of asking her next question.
“Did you not want to?”
A torrent of anger so harrowing swells between them, and the almost-gentle progression of their conversation disappears. “Careful, Miss Granger. One would think that you care for the wishes of Hogwarts’ resident dungeon bat.”
She looks up at his admonishment, shocked at the vitriol his frail voice holds. “I—”
He continues as though she has no protestations. “Couldn’t you have left me to die with my secrets unknown and my survival unwelcome, just as my presence always was? I am a spy, and it is my mantle to carry—”
“ Were,” she whispers with conviction, “You were a spy, and there’s nothing for you to carry anymore.”
He gapes at her, seemingly lost for words. Jaw clenched, he looks even more gaunt up close. For a moment, she is herself again, glaring into his hardened eyes as something precocious, almost petulant, swims to the forefront of her mind.
“You are beholden to no one. You are not indebted to Dumbledore, or the Order, or Voldemort, or even Harry. You owe me nothing, because I only did what was right. You should never have been put in that position in the first place.”
“Foolish girl, you presume too much—”
“No, I don’t. I was there, every single time you saved us over the years. I heard what happened this past year with you as Headmaster, and I know that you were always protecting us, even as Nagini sank her fangs into you.” Her skin warms when her eyes catch his. They are a truculent burnt umber, setting her on fire. “Even between worlds, Severus.”
She shakily leans on the metal foot of the bed, her head dizzy and her heartbeat in her ears as she stands and turns from him. “And just so you know, without factoring in how much I aged when I used the Time Turner, I turn twenty in September.”
One foot scuffs against the floor, and she wonders how she’ll walk back to her bed when it feels like her heart is breaking.
“Just— just a moment.” Hermione’s eyes follow the motion of his fingers drawing circles over his heart, wrinkling the edge of the robe he wears. “Just give me a moment.”
A sigh escapes her, the lump in her throat easing. “Of course.”
Too tired to stand, she sits back down with a sigh. He moves closer to her, his breath shallow and his nostrils flaring. Not making eye contact with him, she tries to find something, anything to hold her attention but him.
Beside her, his hands are clenched into fists, the knuckles of his long, pale fingers whiter than usual, his forearms rippling as he tenses.
“You stood between me and a Killing Curse.”
She hums in agreement.
“Why?”
He is a man conflicted, but a man who bravely continues to confront her nonetheless. “I couldn’t just let you die.”
“You should have! I welcomed it, I needed it to end, Miss Granger.”
A hush falls between them as she processes what he’s saying.
“I know what you’ve done, Severus Snape.”
His body shudders, and she stops herself from reaching for him despite the grieving rictus of his face. “You never gave up on us. You sacrificed so much, and I don’t even know the half of it.”
“It was willingly given.”
“And then you saved me—“
“I only did what was right—“
“Just as I did, then.” Her point proven, his breaths come fast, and she tilts her head to the side. “Please don’t trivialise all you’ve done for the sake of this war. I cannot imagine how hard it must have been, if this pain is anything to go by. And to have lived as a result, when you didn’t…”
“As much as I wished to be delivered from the aftermath of this war, for I do so need to rest, Hermione… I do not regret it.”
Vulnerable to his effect on her, she stops filtering her words. “Why? You’ve always hated me. You never gave me any preference in your classes, or treated me well…”
Discomfited, he folds his arms across his chest. “My role as spy and Head of Slytherin house kept me in the shadows. Your life was of utmost importance, at times more than Potter’s. I did not have to fawn over you to know that it would be you who brought about the end of Voldemort’s immortality. Dumbledore knew it, the Order knew it, and if you died, the loss of your potential is immeasurable.”
Her eyes rove over him, fierce and exacting. “Then what of you? What of your life? Your soul’s worth? If you died… what a waste that would have been.”
“A waste?” He spits the words as though disgusted. “My actions are inexcusable, my mistakes, my betrayal—”
She edges into his personal space, one finger grazing the bandage on his neck. “After all this time, after all this pain you endured… You must know that your mistakes are long redeemed.”
He swallows beneath her hand as she cups his cheek. “You do not know—”
Her thumb caresses the divot bracketing his lips. “You know, something never added up when it came to you. When you gave us your memories, when Harry told me what was in them, it explained so much of what you’ve done over the years. The life you’ve lived.”
Turning on the bed, her knee pushes into his thigh as she gets closer.
“I know that you love Lily,” she continues, “and even with this— I would never— You deserve a life that is yours to live, and now… I’m so sorry.“
For a moment, all is quiet.
“Lily is to me what Potter is to you.”
“No, you don’t need to explain yourself to me.” She attempts to pull away, but his hand rises to hold hers.
“She was my first friend. When she died as a direct result of my actions, the guilt gave me reason to live. Dumbledore set me on a path to redemption, and then—”
She swipes the cratered half-moons below his eyes, and the pads of her fingers come back wet. “I can’t imagine what you must have gone through. When Harry died, I didn’t know what to do with myself.”
Severus turns his head, the bottom of his nose pressing into her hand. He seems to be considering something, and she freezes, wondering if the comfort she offers is unwelcome.
Decided, he kisses her palm, holding it until she notices that she isn’t breathing. His brow furrows in thought, and he closes his eyes, hiding from her gaze.
“You honour me, more than I deserve.” His voice finally breaks, and she surrenders to the urge to lean her forehead against his. “Forgive me— Forgive me for forsaking you—”
“Sev—”
“I bullied you. I held so much contempt for you, simply for associating with Potter and the Order, I did not hide it, all the vile things I said—“
“You were under so much pressure, and we rarely gave you a moment’s rest.”
“Even so—“ he pulls from her, and she worries for him because he’s too pale. “Even so.”
“Will you look at me?” she asks.
He opens his eyes, and she sees him sinking into the quicksand of his mind.
“Please, look at me. ”
Her hand descends to gently cover the bandage on his neck, shocking his senses enough for his attention to return to her.
“You have little to be sorry for when it comes to me, do you hear me?” She shakes his shoulder, careful not to press too hard. “Maybe once, in fourth year… It’s all so insignificant now. But you have my forgiveness if you need it.”
He brings her hands to his lap as he slowly inspects her face. Her hair is dishevelled, and with the smudged mud on her cheek and her watery eyes, she looks slightly deranged. Her palm is warm against his skin, so unlike how cool she felt when he first touched her in the ether.
“Thank you.”
As used to the cold as he is, a fire rolls in his belly every time he notices something new about her. How her face is bruised, her knuckles ashy. The lightning bolt on her chest is not bleeding anymore, a scab sewing it shut the longer he looks.
“How is it so strong?”
Remembering what he’s read, he contemplates their conundrum.“It’s an obscure field of magic. No research, only fables. From what Minnie and Poppy told me of your return to the Shack, you tried to heal me, but were interrupted. Somewhere in that process, your magic and mine intertwined, sealed somehow for a tether to form, for me to see you, and be able to bring you back…”
“Maybe it was…I gave you CPR.”
His fingers twine with hers and his mouth drops open. “Good god. Mouth-to-mouth?”
“My parents were certified in it, and I read the materials…”
“Brightest witch of her age, indeed.”
She lets out a long breath, and it’s like she withers in front of his eyes. Tentatively, she shifts on the bed until her head rests on his shoulder, and like he’s done it a thousand times before, his chin angles downward until it presses into her temple.
“That, and your sacrifice, or the magic you poured into me as you healed me… I do not know.”
Her voice is thick when she speaks again. “So… your soul and mine are connected.”
“Yes.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We’ll heal. And then, you’ll be on your way.”
It sounds so final to her, so “And you? Will you— I know you stayed at Hogwarts for your duties...”
“I need— I need space from here. I may return to my home to recuperate, and perhaps I can make a living doing something I enjoy, so I can remember what it’s like to truly live.”
“I didn’t mean to tie you to me, Severus. I only wished for you to live.”
His mouth lowers until it accidentally brushes her ear, and she shivers. He pauses, fascinated enough to forget his pain, as he retraces his line of thought.
“We are both alive, Hermione, in a world of our making. There’s nothing for it now.”