Hermione watched as Nagini slithered through the air towards Snape, who seemed rooted to the spot. Nagini exuded a blue glow from the protective charm cast upon her by her master. The low, menacing hiss of parseltongue wound through the air, chilling Hermione to the bone. In front of her, Harry uttered a faint gasp, and she could distinguish the word "kill" among the maddening drone. Snape's former pallor was nothing compared to now, as the serpent encroached upon him. In her mind, Hermione willed him to act—to spring to life and Avada the snake—but he did not move. Nagini coiled around his neck, poised to strike, and sank her fangs deep into his neck.
She fought the urge to cry out, as Snape collapsed in a limp, black heap, and Nagini returned to her master, her diamond-laced back flashing in the wand-light. Hermione racked her brain for a way to save the dying man, and rummaged through her beaded bag, hoping therein to find the answer. As she grappled at the bottom of her purse, she felt a sudden, sharp pain; something had pierced her hand. She withdrew a basilisk fang, and considered it for a moment. To her relief, Ron was mesmerized by the scene before him, and did not realize her intent. Harry knelt over the dying professor, attempting feebly to staunch the wound with his fingers.
Hermione retrieved her potions kit from the bag as well, and set to work. Although she had dabbled in the making of medicinal potions, she did not consider herself proficient enough to attempt to make something as difficult as an antivenin. She tried to keep her doubts and emotions at bay; it was easier that way. Besides, she had to try.
She had finished hastily when Harry returned, head bowed, as he displayed a tiny vial of swirling silver. Snape's memories, she deduced. Harry and Ron brushed past her on their way out, as she whispered,
"Don't wait for me."
They did not question her, only nodded somberly and exited the Shrieking Shack.
She sat down beside the potion master's inert body, and attempted to staunch the wound with her robes. She then placed his head carefully in her lap, tilting it back to administer the potion. Some of the yellow liquid dribbled down his chin as she poured the potion down his throat. Why I am helping this man, who has been the source of my troubles for years? she asked herself. Some silent force inside of her bade her to do so. She waited on baited breath, staring into his glazed eyes, glinting like obsidian in the light pulsating from the tip of her wand. Snape did not move.
When she was a child, her parents had taken her to church every Sunday. She had since dismissed her parents' views, which she now considered narrow-minded in light of everything she had been through, but she found herself pleading silently with the Christian God. Please, Lord, let him live. She looked up at the ghostly moonlight penetrating the roof of the dilapidated shack, feeling completely helpless. This helplessness seemed to manifest itself in the man she felt she was unable to save. She saw his revival as her redemption. True, she could not have saved the others, but she felt she should have tried.
She stood, sobbing quietly. The man had been the subject of her loathing for so long, yet she hated herself for not being able to save him. She could not bear any more death or destruction. She lay across his chest, taking in the fleeting warmth his body offered, sobbing uncontrollably. Her tears, two silver streams in the moonlight, dripped upon his robes as she buried her face into the earthly scent of his shirt. It seemed like an eternity passed as she sobbed with the torrent of emotion that had been welling inside her and had finally ruptured. All of a sudden, a hand came to rest on her back, and Snape shuddered violently beneath her with a choking gasp. He was alive, although just barely. Thank Merlin, he was alive!
Hermione gasped, raising herself off him. She quickly fumbled through her beaded bag looking for water, which she held to his thin lips. He spluttered and coughed, and she felt a pang of tenderness for him. Brushing some stray hairs from his face, she whispered, "It's alright." The mantra really meant nothing, she knew, but it comforted her to say it.
"Granger," he said in a weak, strained voice.
"Shhh," she said quietly, grasping his hand. A small smile played upon her lips. To think, this is the same man who made fun of my teeth so many years ago. Now she was jaded, nothing surprised her anymore. She squeezed his hand in a gesture of motherly affection, examining his long, bony fingers.
"Why," he rasped, "Why did you save me?"
Hermione averted her eyes shyly, for she was unsure herself. "There was no reason to let you die. You have saved us in the past."
She held his hand, as he rested in silence for a long time. The Snape she knew would have pulled away at once, with curt insult. His once labored breathing began to relax, and the bleeding had stopped, leaving her robes drenched in his blood.
"Where's Potter?" he finally inquired, a little bit of the old Snape creeping into his tone, although his voice remained weak and childlike. Even being on the brink of death had not distracted from the bigger picture.
"I don't know, honestly," she answered, re-situating herself on the hard stone floor.
Snape eyed the tiny uncorked bottle beside Hermione. "An antivenin," he said, in awe, "it's brilliant, and unprecedented. I never taught that in my classes. You always were a bright one, Miss Granger. One of my best students."
She gave his hand another little squeeze. A compliment from Professor Snape. "The potion has made you daft," she giggled.
"I assure you I am completely in my right mind," he countered. "How on earth did you think of it?"
She stiffened, and her smile faded; she busied herself by nibbling at the nails on her free hand. "I..." she sighed, "I learned of it in muggle school. A man brought in a live snake, and explained to us how a snake's own venom could be used to treat a bite. I found it fascinating, and I did a bit of research. To equate the concept with potion making was…was elementary really." She was flustered. Of all things, she had not wanted to bring up her muggle parentage. To do so was just asking for a snide comment from Snape, whom she knew detested muggles.
She waited for the "mudblood" comment, but Snape only closed his eyes, and repeated, "Brilliant."
To sit in the dusky silence of the shrieking shack was an amiable change, and she was reluctant to return to Harry and Ron, reluctant to witness the devastation within the castle.
Snape voiced the uneasy question plaguing both of them, with quiet concern, "How many have died?"
"I don't know," she answered, as she remembered Fred's image in death and began to cry. She turned away from him, not wanting him to see her tears, her pain.
He winced, "One of your own?"
"Yes," she choked, making a noise like a drowning person gasping for air, "Fred." She dabbed her eyes with the hem of her robe.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, almost inaudibly. She doubted he could feel the same compassion for a Weasley, but she did not doubt his sincerity.
"I just can't believe it," she cried, "All the people I love. Gone." She turned to him, "And I have nothing to return to. My parents don't know they have a daughter."
Snape stared at her, as if he did not know what to do or how to comfort her. He supported himself with a groan, and leaned upon the desk behind him. He reached out to her, cradling her face in his hands, blotting her tears with his thumb. She looked at him with surprise, their eyes were searching.
She could feel his hands trembling against her flushed cheeks, as he examined a strand of her hair between his fingers. "What happened to your hair?"
"The room of requirement burned when we went to search for the diadem of Ravenclaw," she explained, "Thanks to some of your Slytherins."
"Why do I feel like Draco is somehow involved?"
She went on to tell him everything that had happened since her trio had set out on their search for horcruxes, sometimes forgetting to who she was talking.
"Ron and I went into the Chamber of Secrets, where we found the rotting remains of the basilisk. That's how I brewed the antivenin, from a crushed basilisk fang," she said, somewhat proudly.
"Now don't be a know-it-all. You were doing so well," there it was, the snarky sarcasm, though it contained none of his former bitterness. It was almost playful. "Still, antivenin from a basilisk fang, hm," his eyebrows arched as he considered this.
"I hope Ron is okay," she whimpered. The corner of Snape's mouth twitched, but he said nothing.
She dug into her beaded bag and pulled out a bottle of essence of dittany. "Come here."
He complied, leaning in dangerously close to her. She dabbed the cuts on his face, inflicted by the shattered glass. Confusion shown in his dark eyes at this display of human kindness; he looked away, frowning. "Miss Granger?"
"Yes?" she smiled, still dabbing away. "And you may call me Hermione, Professor."
"Hermione," he said in his drawling baritone. It sent a chill down her spine, yet she relished in the way he said it. "You are truly different. I have treated you appallingly in the past. Thank you," He gently caught her wrist, ceasing her rhythmic hand movements, "for saving my life." He stared at her with a languorous intensity that both frightened her and drew her in further.
"I must go," she broke his hold and stood so fast that it dizzied her. "Harry and Ron will be worried."
"Please do not leave me," he said quietly. "I am too weak yet to move," he paused, "and if the dark lord finds me, I will not receive a second chance."
"I will be back," she whispered, "I wouldn't dream of leaving you vulnerable like this."
The word "vulnerable" made him grimace. She knew he hated having to depend on anyone. Weakness was a new concept for Severus Snape.
"Professor," she turned to him boldly.
He looked up at her hopefully, "Yes, Hermione?"
The way he said her name made weak in the knees. She ached for him, and did not understand why. "The memories in the vial you gave to Harry, what were they?"
A pained expression crossed Snape's sallow face, knowing he owed his savior the truth. "Important information regarding headmaster Dumbledore. Potter needs to know."
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing more," he replied.
He had confirmed her suspicions. She felt the urge to kiss his forehead, but she refrained. She stood in awkward silence, as he looked at her up and down with a dazed and foreign expression. "I will return shortly," she whispered.
Snape made a strange noise, half-whimper, half-laugh, "Be brief…Be careful." She nodded, and scampered out.