One time, he thought he recognized the voice that was speaking. Harry Potter, the “Chosen One.” Drifting lazily through space, he thought with detached amusement that if the hereafter involved the voice of Harry Potter, God had a mighty peculiar sense of humor. But then it probably meant he had been sent to the Other Place “ a distinct possibility, given the way he had lived….
He strained to listen.
“So you’re saying the git isn’t guilty? I tell you, I was there. I know what I saw. That’s just fact, Hermione.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want the truth to get in the way of your ‘facts’ now, would we?” the voice of a girl snapped back. “Talk to Scrimgeour. I’m sure you’ll be able to get an audience with him.”
“Scrimgeour? What the hell has he got to do with anything?”
“Honestly, Harry, I don’t have time now. It’s still touch and go. I’ll talk to you later, ok?”
The impatient voice of the girl faded as another patch of dark caught up with him.
Some time later, he became aware of the voice again, the girl’s voice, trying to reach through the fog.
“Sir, can you hear me? Sir?”
Grimacing, he tried to focus.
“I think he’s responding,” he heard another voice, deeper, lower. “Try again.”
“Sir? Professor Snape?”
Professor…that had been him, a long time ago, hadn’t it? He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids wouldn’t cooperate.
“Here, drink this, if you can.” He felt something cold and hard against his lips. His mouth, he suddenly became aware, was dry, and he was quite thirsty. Yes, he wanted a drink. Simply trying to open his mouth took all his concentration. The hard thing tipped up, and then something was in his mouth, something not at all nice. He grimaced, and gagged on the bitter liquid.
“I know, it’s terrible stuff, but it will make you better.” There was sympathy in the voice, he noted with disjointed surprise before he drifted off again.
The next time he woke up, he came to the certain realization that he had not died. The vicious pain that pushed him to consciousness required a living, physical body, of that he was certain. A low moan escaped him, and then there was a cool hand on his forehead, and the voice of the girl, muttering incantations. The pain lessened, and there was more bitter liquid and a return to oblivion.
He could not have said how many times the cycle repeated, but over time, the lucid intervals increased until a moment came where he knew himself and his surrounding and knew that somehow, in spite of everything, he had survived. He opened his eyes warily, his eyelids still feeling heavy, and winced as the bright light made his head hurt.
“Professor.” The voice of the girl. He groped around in murky memories. Miss…Granger. Yes. That was right.
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His tongue felt as if it was glued to the roof of his mouth, his lips dry and cracked. Instantly, a hand slipped around his neck and lifted his head slightly, and at the same time, the rim of a glass touched against his lips. He grimaced.
“It’s just water this time, Professor.” The voice was soothing, quiet.
The cold water ran pleasantly down his parched throat, and he drank greedily. Even so, that small action had already exhausted his supply of strength, and he fell back on the pillow gratefully, closing his eyes against the light and his returning memory.
Why hadn’t he died? He should by all means be dead now. He was only too aware of the extent of the injuries he had sustained. He had been so sure of certain death that he ”
He flushed hot as the memory moved into focus. He had shown her everything, memories that no one except Dumbledore had known about. Dumbledore, the wizard who had been the closest thing he had ever had to a father, the wizard he had killed, for whom he had lived the life of an outcast from that moment on. Who had trusted him, and whom he had trusted in return.
And now the girl knew. Not just the truth about what had happened, but why. About Lily. About the reason he had become Dumbledore’s man. About Godric’s Hollow.
Inwardly, he cursed his dying vanity. Why had he not been content to let the truth die with him? His damnable pride, intent on leaving behind even the smallest legacy, of wanting to ensure that at least one person knew…how he regretted that moment of weakness now.
“I think he might be running a temperature again,” the voice “ Miss Granger’s voice “ said, and he felt her hand on his forehead again. “I think I should…”
He didn’t hear what exactly it was she thought she should do, as he, his strength exhausted, fell back into a deep sleep.
The next time he awoke, it was night. Or so he deduced from the fact that the lights in the room had been dimmed, and it was quiet on the ward. There was no window. He turned his head with difficulty, noticing that he was in a proper bed now, not the cot he had been dumped on originally. The cot was still in the room, however, and someone was sleeping on it, back turned to him.
Gingerly, he attempted to raise himself on his elbows. A stifled cry escaped him as sharp, knifelike pain shot through his chest and abdomen at the attempt. Immediately, the someone on the cot got up and hurried over.
“You shouldn’t try to do that yet,” she said reproachfully, brushing bushy hair back from her face and eyes. “You've been quite ill, and you're still far from well.” With practiced hands, she settled him back on the pillow.
“What are you doing here, Granger?” To his satisfaction, his voice, even though it was still rough and raspy, had obviously decided to cooperate this time around.
To his surprise she flushed. “I work here,” she said, not meeting his eyes. "I am a Healer now."
That much, he had figured out. That was not what he had meant. “Is it customary for hospital staff to sleep in the patients’ rooms now? How very touching.” His harsh words were accompanied by a weak sneer. More likely that the Ministry had ordered him under constant surveillance.
She ignored his comment and put her hand on his forehead again. He turned his head away irritably, dislodging her hand in the process.
“Well, it sure looks like you are feeling better,” she said, a hint of amusement in her voice.
He looked at her with resentment. The smile on her face died away.
There was, then, a look of pity in her eyes that made his face burn again. He had, for just a moment, hoped that the recollection he had of sharing his memories with her had been part of his fever-induced delusions, but that look on her face put that feeble hope to rest once and for all. Nothing else could explain that soft, pitying look, aimed at the most hated man in the post-Voldemort wizarding world.
Even worse, looking into her eyes, he saw that she knew exactly what he was thinking at the moment.
“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “I won’t tell anyone. Not about that, at least.”
Not about Lily, was what she meant, he knew. Not about that pathetic, hopeless love he had harbored for so many years. If she had laughed at his ridiculous ambitions, it would have been easier to take than the pity he saw instead. If only he had his wand, he could Obliviate her…but that recourse was denied him. In mortification, he turned his face towards the empty wall on the other side of the bed.
The girl looked at the back of his turned head with sympathy. But how do you help someone who doesn’t want to be helped?
She stood undecidedly for a moment, her heart clenching for him. When he had let her into his mind, she hadn’t just seen, she had felt. The terror, the guilt, the inhuman pain of what he had had to do. The loneliness that had followed, that had always been there, really, but had been alleviated by the valued role he had played as a member of Hogwarts’ staff and as a member of the Order of the Phoenix. “It was almost like having friends.” She couldn’t remember where she had heard the words. Something Neville had repeated to her? But they fit. Not that they had really cared about him, any of them except Dumbledore. But there had been a certain, if uneasy, level of comradeship and common purpose.
And then there had been nothing to keep him except for the truth, which he had hugged to himself like a blanket: that he had done the right thing, at horrendous cost, that he at least knew himself not to be the murderous traitor everyone else had thought him. And cold comfort it had been.
She sat down in the chair next to him.
“Sir?”
No answer.
“Would you like a potion? To help you get back to sleep? Is the pain getting worse?”
“What I would like, Miss Granger, is to be relieved of your irritating presence.” The words came out in a sharp hiss, through clenched teeth. “Surely there must be someone else who can perform your duties?”
“I have asked for leave of absence to look after you,” she said quietly. “It’s the least I can do.”
“How very kind of you, but I shall have to decline that privilege,” he sneered. “I insist you find a replacement. The sooner, the better.”
Hermione could feel the resentment bubble up inside her. She had saved his life, for crying out loud. He’d be dead without her. She had spent every moment of the last four days at his bedside, and this was the thanks she was getting? She swallowed hard, trying to banish the anger. He couldn’t know what had happened. He had hardly been lucid at all over the last few days.
“You died, you know,” she said conversationally as she stood and tucked the blanket back in around his rigid shape. “We had to resuscitate you twice. It is almost a miracle that you made it.”
“How pleased you must be to have kept me alive for the Dementor’s Kiss.” His voice, weak as it was, dripped acid.
That’s right. He didn’t know about that yet, either. Hermione firmly put the lid on her annoyance. One couldn’t really blame him. If anyone were entitled to be in a bad mood for the rest of his life, it would be him. And why should he be grateful? After all, how many lives had he saved without ever receiving a word of thanks from anyone?
“You won’t have to worry about that, I think,” she said lightly.
The mystery of that statement was enough to finally get him to face her again. “Explain,” he demanded harshly.
“An hour or two after we resuscitated you, the Minister of Magic arrived in a state of considerable agitation, asking if you were still alive. It seems that as soon as your heart stopped beating, a small box materialized on his desk, containing a number of glass flasks. Each one held a memory. Dumbledore’s memories.” She smiled. “He said that if the memories were proven genuine and untampered with, he would grant you clemency.”
Instead of relief and joy at the news that he was “off the hook”, so to speak, that now she wasn’t the only one who knew he wasn’t a traitor, there was a thin-lipped, bitter smirk on his face.
“That’s good news, isn’t it, Sir?” She was puzzled. “He promised to come back when they have concluded examining the evidence.” She looked at him as if debating if she should go on, biting her lower lip. When she finally spoke again, the words came haltingly. “There is a bit of bad news, though, Sir. They rounded up every known Death Eater’s possessions and auctioned them off for victims’ restitution.”
“So my house is gone.” Snape looked at her through narrowed eyes.
She bit her lip again. “Well, no. No one wanted your house, I’m afraid.” She looked at him apologetically. “But there isn’t much left in it. I bought some of your books. “ I’ll return them, of course,” she added hastily.
She held her breath for a moment until the words burst out. “I’m sorry. It’s not fair.” Her eyes fired up. “I can’t believe Dumbledore would wait until you were dead to let everyone know what really happened. This could have all been avoided. That he would have let everyone go on thinking you were the worst kind of wizard, when you were so brave…it wasn’t “” She bit her lip again.
Not fair. Not clever. He could almost hear her thoughts. Snape’s features hardened. “He could not risk exposing my position.”
“Well, he could have had those memories appear once Riddle was dead just as well, couldn’t he?” she said rebelliously. “It would have been safe then.”
“You speak out of ignorance.” His voice was rock hard, derision in every syllable. The sort of magic that involved suspending an object in time and space until the cessation of someone’s vital signs required close physical proximity to the person the spell was tied to during the casting process. Dumbledore had not had that sort of access to Voldemort.
He closed his eyes. It sounded just like the old fool to do something like this. He remembered the conversation, after he had finally given in to the old man’s constant harangue…
“It is too bad, I suppose, that the world will remember me as The Traitor,” he had said, the words tasting like wormwood. “That when the history books are written, that is how I will go down for posterity.”
Dumbledore had cast him a glance of sympathy shot through with sadness. “I promise you, I will not let that happen.”
After four years on the run, he supposed he could be forgiven for thinking that the old man had simply not got around to making provision to fulfill that promise. He had waited for a letter to surface, for someone to speak out who had been trusted with the secret, but there had been nothing. And so, at the last possible second, he had taken matters into his own hands….
His face tightened as if in pain.
“Do you need some more pain potion, Sir?” The voice of the girl, full of concern, interrupted his thoughts.
“I do not need your help or your pity, Miss Granger,” he said harshly.
He could hear her huff in exasperation, and then it was quiet for a while. Finally. He turned his head again. Maybe he could finally get some more sleep.
Half an hour later he was still awake, every muscle tensed. Whatever pain potion or spell she had used was wearing off, and the up-to-now bearable pain was growing worse by the second, stabbing, stinging, needle-sharp. He drew a hissing breath when a bolt forked through his system, jagged and lightning-hot.
The girl pounced on him. “Sir?” The beading of cold sweat on his face told her all she needed to know. She pulled her wand out and pointed it at his midsection, muttering incantations. The pain lessened marginally, then returned with a vengeance.
“Useless,” he gasped. “Give me your wand.”
She moved back a step, her eyebrows raised in alarm. “You are not to have a wand until the Ministry says it’s all right. I’m sorry. I’ll be right back with a potion.”
“Or you could trust me.” The words came out harshly, challenging, the look in his eyes telling her that right now she would be required to back up her bluster with action.
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” she said miserably, backing away a step. “I promise, I’ll be right back.”
He closed his eyes, bracing against the pain, a bitter grimace on his face. So much for all her words...
Suddenly, he felt something slim and hard being pressed into his hand. He opened his eyes in surprise. “I do trust you,” she whispered, and her eyes were bright.
He inhaled deeply as his fingers closed tightly around the wand. It felt good in his hand. As he lifted it and began muttering a sing-song incantation under his breath, she turned and disappeared into the bathroom. He could feel his muscles relaxing, the spasms loosening, as the spell began its work. When he finished, the pain had receded into the distance, and he lay quiet, bone-tired and exhausted.
She returned with a cool, damp cloth in her hand. “You will have to teach me that spell,” she said in a casual voice, trying to cover the sudden awkward silence. “When you are better.” There was challenge in her eyes now, too, as she, with practiced, gentle motions, wiped the sweat from his face. “Truce?”
The cool cloth felt good against his hot skin. He closed his eyes as he handed her her wand back, and within a minute, he was asleep.