Disclaimer: Hermione Granger, Severus Snape, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum...yeah, none of that stuff is mine.
Nemo Nisi Mors
"This is not how it was supposed to happen." Her voice is frustrated and bitter, and despite the skeletal pallor of her face Severus can see the frown of indignation written across her brow. A choking laugh forces its way past the broken remains of his teeth as he pulls Hermione tighter against him, thankful for the solidity of the ground beneath his back.
"What were you expecting?" Severus tries for his customary sneer; it is hampered by the two-inch slice that now runs from the corner of his mouth down to his jaw, leaving his cheek free to flap in the gust of his breath. "Did you think –" Pause to cough, spit some blood, "Did you think that the Death Eaters were just going to let us point our wands and say 'Avada Kedavra'? Did you really think that no one would get hurt?"
"No." Hermione moves to shove at him, then winces, no doubt as she remembers the shattered bones in her arm. Severus tightens his grip further still. "I just thought Harry was supposed to win, and that would make it worth all worthwhile."
"You don't care about dying?"
"I'm too old to care about dying."
"You're not even twenty-six."
"Well, at least I made it a quarter-century." She smiles around the bruises that blot her taut, clammy skin.
"You're too damn young to die, Hermione."
"So're you."
"But I feel old." And he does – every inch of his body is screaming in agony, and he can't help but think that maybe it's better that it will all end now, because it's been like this so many times before and maybe, just maybe, if he's dead he won't be able to feel pain. Only somewhere through the dim haze that's taken over his mind Severus knows there's something he doesn't want to abandon, doesn't want to lose, doesn't want to let go.
"You know what?" Hermione asks. Severus is amazed that she's still conscious.
"What?" Come to think of it, Severus is amazed that he is still conscious.
"I've always been one of those optimistic people, you know? And I've always just had this, this incredible hope that things would turn out right in the end."
"You don't say."
"Don't you mock me, Severus Snape." A hint of that delicious pout on her mouth, the one that always sprang up when she was defiant and ready to give him the row of his life, the one that made him want to kiss her until he forgot his own name – just a hint, and then it was gone. "No, but the thing is – I don't think I believe that anymore."
"You're talking like your brains are addled. I think that curse of Malfoy's must have knocked you funny in the head."
"I know that curse of Malfoy's knocked me funny in the head." Her hand edges towards the great raw slash in her scalp, and with a whine of effort Severus wraps his own crushed fingers around her wrist and pulls her hand back.
"Don't touch it, you'll just make it worse."
"Because that will make such a great difference, now."
"It might."
"You're a liar, Severus Snape, and you damn well know it." Her face contorts as she pushes herself the half-foot forward to press her lips against his one good cheek. "You told me you would take care of yourself."
"I did. I'm in brilliant condition, can't you see?"
"Oh, yes, the perfect image of health. Me too, we ought to model for Witch Weekly."
"Please tell me you don't read that rubbish."
"I don't read that rubbish."
"You're lying."
"'Birds of a feather', I think the saying goes?"
Severus sighs, blinks his eyes shut, opens them again. Hermione is still looking up at him, her own eyes wide, the whites turning drastically yellow, now. The gash stretching from her temple to the back of her head is dripping fiercely, and Severus reaches out again with his damaged fingers, this time to wipe a line of blood from her pasty grey cheek.
"Would you prefer honesty, then?" he asks. "Hermione Granger, you are dying."
"Yes," she says simply, "and so are you."
"You will be dead in probably less than five minutes."
"Yes," she says again, "and so will you."
Severus feels wetness – he tilts his head slightly to look down at the ground by his side and sees that it is soaking and dark with blood. Hermione follows his gaze.
"Yours?" she ventures. Severus shrugs, nods towards the gaping hole that scores his abdomen. Hermione wriggles closer, and Severus is excruciatingly glad for the weight of her hip pressing soundly into the wound.
"I'm going to miss you," she says softly, her lips muffled against his shoulder. "I almost wish we hadn't – I mean, it just scares me that I won't ever...it wasn't enough time."
"Nonsense," he says curtly. "Be grateful for what time we had. It could be have been much less."
"Not...fair," she gasps. Severus can feel her heaving now, great shudders wracking her small, fractured body as it cowers into his own. "I don't...I can't..." A last, rattling breath – a gurgling cough – scarlet leaks from the corners of her mouth.
"See you on the other side?" comes her final whisper. Severus squeezes her tightly.
"I devoutly hope so," is his fervent reply. Hermione's eyelids fall reluctantly shut, and she goes still.
Severus inhales deeply; slowly, contentedly he allows his lungs to deflate. He can let go, now.
fin.
A/N: The title of this story, "Nemo Nisi Mors", is a Latin saying which translates roughly to "nothing except death (will do us part)". Appropriate, no?