She's here, I can feel it. It is as if I can feel her tears on my face.
She cries, and I'm afraid to hope that she cries for me.
But she does, and her sorrow is like a blade, cutting into my chest, causing me pain that shears me from within to without. Here, drowning in a pool of my own blood that seems to be everywhere, the inconsequential thought of the capacity of my veins and arteries and heart spring into my mind.
It hurts too much to laugh, and all that emerges is a gurgle. One would think that at the brink of the river, there would be more significant revelations, like your life flashing by, or regrets or all of that nonsense mortals seem to attach a great deal of importance to; but here, while the very thing that kept me alive was choking the life out of my being, all I can think of was the existence of so much blood within his veins.
This is the end, I know it, I can feel it, and no amount of hope or love is sufficient to drag my weary soul and body away from crossing the ethereal waters, into the one place that could grant me some measure of rest.
But still, the galleon trembles, and the magnitude of her feelings are projected into my own, and I know that she will suffer the most. Foolish child, she lent her heart to be trampled in the end, to achieve nothing more than my own joy, fleeting as it was.
Foolish girl. Wonderful angel.
Imminent Death must make one maudlin; how else would I explain this sudden need to see her one last time, to call her name before the breath from my lips ceases forevermore, and to know that she has enough of my heart, for the thing in my own body would quietly die a traitorous death.
A shadow blocks my vision, and I shudder for a moment, preparing myself to face the possibility of becoming a meal, however fatal, for a creature as vile as could be imagined. Poetic justice, they would call it; killed by the mascot of my very own kind.
Another gurgle and a cough wracks my body, reminding me that humour was not best appreciated by my broken form. But wait; if it were what I had assumed, there should have been… something.
My eyes fly open to meet not sickly yellow, but a brilliant emerald green, almost like… Lily!
I gasp and make to touch, but my hand stills when I realise that if I were feeling pain and discomfort, I was more dead than alive, but alive nonetheless, and if I were still alive, this would not, could not, be Lily.
Ah, it strikes me belatedly. Potter.
Instantly, I know that he is not alone. She must have accompanied him. Of all the foolish things! But then, the slothfulness that seemed to have pervaded my entire being like a cocoon bursts like nothing more than a bubble, and I act on long ingrained notions.
He must know the truth! The plans! The Blasted Bloody plans!
My mental tirade is cut short when I see her.
She moves into my vision, pain and sorrow etched in her face as surely as the tiredness surrounding her. A hand raised with Herculean effort, beckons to her, but the imbecilic, selfish brat that Potter truly is, assumes that it is for him, and leans forward, a thoroughly smack-able expression on his impudent face.
I grasp his collar to slice him to pieces with my formidable vocabulary, but my throat chooses that instant to remind me, in the most inconvenient way involving pain and burning, that it is in no shape to assist in any kind of ripping. Quite inconvenient, of course, but there is only that much one can do when said throat has been in the jaws of a vicious psychopath's equally vicious pet.
The boy has no sense, I can confidently claim in the afterlife to blessed Potter and his cronies. He just sits there blinking owlishly at me. I tighten my grasp on his collar, jerking him in the process. If I had more strength, I would clip him one, but I can feel my life ebbing away.
Dear girl, she hands him a vial, and urges him to collect the memories I'm trying to extract for his use. Our eyes meet and I hold her gaze, while the boy is scrambling to catch all of the silvery-blue strands.
Her warm, sorrowful gaze eases my discomfort, and I can feel a strange numbness making its way through my body. I mouth the words I have been wanting to say, but too afraid to utter, lest it break a heart, mine or hers, and I can see that she has understood.
Fresh tears flow from those eyes I could drown in, and I think myself selfish for wanting peace when my peace would cause her distress, but I know it will not be.
She will learn to love again, I hope, but I am not presumptuous enough to assume that I am irreplaceable. I hope more that I become replaceable.
I feel regret that I am leaving her this way, in the crux of this war, with nothing more than well wishes and the company of this immature brat, currently sealing the vial that my dear sweet wonderful woman has conjured for him.
Tell me, can you conjure a life that I wanted to have with you?
I turn to the boy, and tell him "Look at me, you fool! If you ever so much as let a hair on her head be harmed, I assure you that I will haunt you for eternity!"
All that comes out is a raspy "Look at me," and he turns those eyes to mine, his mother's eyes, Lily's eyes, and I find the colour most alluring, while my vision fades.
Harry and Hermione watched, with mixed emotions, as the man gasped out his last breath. Harry's mind was in turmoil, but Hermione felt a strange calm settle over her.
And then, Severus Snape moved no more.
She watched, with a feeling of love and loss, the man she had come to think of as a part of her. Harry already had risen and made his way to the tunnel, not glancing if she had followed; the pounding of his footsteps harsh in the sudden stillness that had seemed to encompass everything.
"Goodbye, my love, I promise to come back as soon as I can," she whispered, drawing her face close to his pale, peaceful one.
"I hope you are finally at peace." A sob escaped her lips, as she pressed them to his slightly cool ones. The warmth had yet to leave them.
Hermione paused to caress his cheek, and suddenly she couldn't stay here anymore. Although she hated to leave him this way, she knew he would have it no other way.
"Would you have done the same, if it were me, instead?"
Only silence surrounded her, broken by the harsh rasping of that madman, issuing yet another ultimatum.
The thought of Voldemort seemed to shake her from her trance, and she rose to her feet, gazed at Severus a moment longer, and took off down the tunnel. She would see to the destruction of that Snake Faced bastard, of that she was certain. A sense of purpose and a deep seated need for vengeance took hold of Hermione, lightening her footsteps, giving her speed, while she followed the path Severus had opened for them.
"I won't let you down, Severus. Your sacrifice will not be in vain!"