DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.
Chapter 4: Pity on Us Poor Sinners
He was asleep again. Hermione set Professor Snape's untouched glass of water down on his bedside table and reclaimed her seat beside him. She studied his face uncomfortably. It was not the first time in the last two weeks that his eyes had flickered open, or that he'd mistaken her for Lily Potter. It was, however, the first time he had touched her, and the first time he'd maintained consciousness for more than a second or two. She strained her memory, thinking back over the last seven years. She thought it was possible that it might have been the first time he'd ever touched her at all.
She supposed that she was probably going to have to pay for that, later, if he remembered what he'd done. She sighed and let her head fall back against the chair. She was bone-weary, more exhausted than she could ever remember being before. She felt old. Madame Pomfrey had examined her at length and determined that she wasn't under any sort of recognized curse, although it was possible that she'd been hit with something unknown.
"Chances are that something grazed you just enough to bring you low for a week or two. Combine that with the strain of the last few months, and it's no wonder you're in the state you're in, child," she had clucked, bustling about like a mother hen. Even her large, white smock and the frilly cap she wore on her head seemed to perpetuate that image, somehow. Hermione had merely sat there, unmoving. She rarely moved at all lately, if she wasn't working; it required energy she simply didn't possess anymore. Pomfrey had dosed her with Pepper-Up and offered to let her have a few vials of Dreamless Sleep if she felt she wasn't getting enough rest. She'd refused, although she knew she probably needed it.
Potions brought her thoughts back to Professor Snape, and she resumed her study of him. A horrible, crimson scar stood out on his neck, the remnants of a row of sharp teeth and two huge fangs that had embedded themselves in his skin. Either because he was still ill, or merely because the red of the scar merely provided contrast, he looked as white as Nearly Headless Nick, and when the light hit him, he seemed almost as translucent. It seemed to Hermione that he was barely tethered to the world of the living, even after two weeks.
She wasn't sure why she sat with him so often. The hospital wing was the quietest area of the castle, the only place free of the constant chatter, crying, and shouting that were the inevitable byproducts of hundreds of wizards running about and rebuilding a castle after a battle full of casualties. Madame Pomfrey had worked hard to restore it to its original appearance and ensure that it was, once more, a quiet sanctuary.
Since most of the other patients were gone and few others came to visit the Professor (she wasn't sure how many people even knew he was there), it was a convenient place to be alone, and sitting with Professor Snape was the only excuse she could find to linger there. Besides, ever since Harry had described the memories he'd seen in the pensieve, she'd been drawn to Professor Snape in a way she never had before. It changed so many of the assumptions she'd had about him.
She had always been his defender amongst her classmates; always the one to insist on calling him by his title, on not automatically assuming that he was the guilty party when dark deeds were being done. And then he'd killed Dumbledore, and she'd felt like such a little fool. She had been so confident that he was on their side, that the Headmaster wouldn't trust a former Death Eater with Harry's life unless he was sure. In the past, even when the evidence suggested otherwise, she had chosen to believe Dumbledore, much to Harry and Ron's irritation.
In the end, it was her habitual trust in Dumbledore that had led her to decide that Professor Snape must have been acting on orders. In spite of the horror stories coming from Hogwarts, in spite of everything, she couldn't quite bring herself to believe that Dumbledore had been so horribly wrong. In a way, she supposed, she had been clinging to something, no matter how irrational, because she couldn't face the alternative. It was like Ron insisting that Moody could have survived the fall from his broom, when everyone knew it was impossible.
It had been different too, though, than Ron. She had at least a little logic on her side. Harry's story didn't make sense to her. With everything Dumbledore had ever said to them about death, she couldn't believe that at the last moment, he would turn to Severus Snape and plead for his life. No—having protected Harry by petrifying him and throwing the cloak over him, Dumbledore would have died with as much dignity as he had lived. He should have been cracking jokes, not begging for his life. It was too uncharacteristic, she decided. The only conclusion she could reach was that he'd been begging for something else.
She hadn't told Harry or Ron of her thoughts. She knew it would be pointless. If her logic was sound, the truth would out eventually. Just as she was convinced that Dumbledore wouldn't beg Professor Snape for his own life, she was convinced that he wouldn't order Snape to kill him without leaving a way to clear his name. So she waited. Occasionally she dropped hints, such as allowing Phineas Nigellus to hear that they were in the Forest of Dean. When Harry had returned to the tent with Ron and the sword, she'd taken that as confirmation that Phineas was carrying information to the new Headmaster and that Snape, in turn, was helping them.
She hadn't been able to see when Nagini bit him, but Harry had whispered something, and the screams had conveyed the rest. At that moment, she was sure he would die. She'd wanted to cry. It was the crowning unfairness. That, she thought, was the worst thing about Voldemort. It was not the cruelty, or the murder, or the torture, but the sheer undeserved nature of it that galled her. Whatever the man was, he didn't deserve to be struck down by a giant snake and left to bleed to death in a shack built for the convenience of a werewolf who'd nearly killed him at least twice before. He was supposed to be a Master of Potions, a Slytherin, and a spy. She was angry with him for not predicting that this would happen, for not saving himself. She couldn't explain why, except that she was tired of losing people. She realized she'd wanted him to be cleared while he was still alive. She'd wanted him to have at least one day in which he could walk amongst his fellow wizards and not be reviled.
And so when she'd seen the flask that lay in his robes, she had been happy. She'd snatched it up while Harry was distracted, and sniffed it, muttering a quick charm to amplify her senses. She could identify most of the ingredients from the scent and appearance of the potion (she'd kept up with her studies as best she could while on the run). It wasn't a poison, she could tell, and so she could only hope it was a healing draught she didn't recognize. She didn't know if it would work, but at least the man hadn't been a complete fool. And then he'd given Harry the memories.
As he fell asleep, he'd moved back into almost the same position he'd been in for the last two weeks. If not for the almost imperceptible rising and falling of his chest and the faint movement of the vein in his neck, she would have assumed he was a corpse. He had spent half a month dreaming of Harry's mother, calling out her name sometimes. In all of the hours she had spent arguing with herself over his probable innocence during her night watches, it had never occurred to her that Lily Evans Potter might be the reason for his betrayal of Voldemort.
It made sense in retrospect. She could remember countless slurs against Harry's father, but never once had the Professor allowed Lily Potter's name to cross his lips in their presence. Every negative thing he'd had to say about Harry was somehow connected to James, and never to Lily. That alone should have tipped her off. And when Slughorn had spoken of Lily Evans as his star Potions pupil… why had she not seen it then? She assumed double classes with Gryffindor and Slytherin were a longstanding tradition. Naturally, Severus Snape would have known Lily Evans, as they shared something in common with her that was deeply meaningful to him. They probably even studied together, she realized with sudden surprise. They had been friends since before their first trip to Platform Nine and Three Quarters. Hermione thought of all the times she'd badgered Ron and Harry to finish their homework, and she suddenly wondered if Lily Evans had badgered Snape the same way, so many years ago. Somehow it didn't occur to her that Snape would have been the one badgering Lily. Snape wasn't the badgering type.
Of course, she couldn't have predicted their childhood friendship, but it didn't surprise her to learn of it, either. She had never thought of him being in love before. It had always seemed rather horrible to contemplate. Now, though, she realized that it explained everything about him.
For the last seven years, she had thought of him with respect for his intellect and awe for the risks he had run on behalf of Harry and the Order. As she looked at him now, and saw the sweat beading on his brow, she thought back to the first time she'd seen him begin to wake. It was a week after the battle, and his eyes had suddenly opened wide, flashing with pain. And then they'd rolled back into his head, and he'd whispered "Please, Lil…" and drifted into silence again. His dreams seemed to be tormenting him. Lately, she had spent much less time thinking of his mind and his courage, and far more thinking of his heart.
She accio'd a damp washcloth from Madame Pomfrey's worktable, and folded it into a long rectangle, draping it carefully across his hot forehead. He didn't respond. She wondered fleetingly if the potion he'd taken was supposed to have this effect, if he'd planned to be unconscious for so long as his body slowly knit itself back together, fighting the venom that still crawled through his veins.
Sadness began to steal over her as she watched him. His entire life, she realized, had been a tragedy. Born to a father who didn't want him and a mother who couldn't protect him, raised with one foot in the Wizarding world and the other in the muggle world, and never embraced by either. She remembered being told that he'd come to school already equipped with a disturbing knowledge of the Dark Arts, and she wondered how he'd come by it. She wondered why, with only Snape to influence her before she arrived at Hogwarts, Lily hadn't been similarly educated. She wanted to ask him, but she couldn't imagine ever being in a position to do so. She was already shocked that he hadn't thrown her from the room the moment he waked to see her at his side.
It was inevitable, she realized, that he would become a Death Eater. He'd known long before arriving at Hogwarts that he'd be in Slytherin, and it proved to be exactly what he had dreamed of: a home. He'd been accepted and brought into the fold. What did it matter to him, a poor, love-starved half-blood, if the ones offering him comfort and shelter were horrible people? Everybody else despised him. He'd never been given a reason to ally himself with anyone else, except for Lily, and she had turned her back on him as well.
Hermione frowned. She'd been called a mudblood before, and it had stung horribly. She wondered what she would do if Harry or Ron ever dared... but she couldn't imagine simply walking away.
Gently, she wiped his face, and then set the washcloth down on the table, beside the photo album. His life was a tragedy. She'd been angry with him when she thought he wasn't going to fight, but now that she knew more of the story, she wondered why he had bothered. She doubted that he expected to find happiness when he awoke.
"I'll be back, Professor," she said softly, and then she left. He gave no sign that he'd heard.