"Draco, he thinks I'm dead" Hermione's desperate statement seemed to have no real motive, therefore, having seated his friend at the table and calming her down in every possible way, Draco scowled disappointingly at his godfather who had fallen into his stupor again and went to Lavender to ask for advice: he still felt powerless when it came to amorous affairs.
Lavender Brown enthusiastically leafed through a motley selection of Muggle books on fairy tale therapy and at the same time stirred some dark green concoction in a small cauldron, she just dismissed Malfoy's mute question:
"What? I had forty-five minutes, unexpected free time, mind you, so I thought, I'd combine something pleasant with something useful: I will select materials for further work with the kids and make myself a regenerating hair mask.
"Love, are you a witch, or are you not?" Draco rolled his eyes mockingly, but Lavender just brushed it off.
"What would you understand in natural remedies, Malfoy. That's not why you came to me, so tell me what happened?"
"I know nothing about natural remedies..." Draco hesitated. "I need your advice. I talked to Herm, explained to her the whole principle of a stressful situation, and advised her to try Legilimency on a godfather."
Lavender very carefully put the wooden spoon aside and turned to Draco.
"Why don't I like your tone, Malfoy?"
Draco grimaced, walked over to the wall, and plopped down into the nearest chair.
"Because I am an idiot, Sugarplum."
"Well, and this is news. But still?"
"I don't know what Herm specifically saw, but she told me that the godfather considered her dead, and I won't understand how this could have happened. Doesn't it seem overly dramatic?"
Lavender looked thoughtfully at the window, behind which the furious February snowstorm was beating through the windows, and began to speak, not particularly addressing anyone.
"It's time for you and me to stop being surprised, Draco, we have been working with traumas and their consequences for a lot of years, so we know very well what role the trigger sometimes plays. On that crazy day, it was generally impossible to understand where the forces of Light were, and where the Eaters were. We all ran and ran through mud, blood, and spell flares. Everything crumbled, the enemies pressed on us, and we tried to withstand. I don't even remember what time of day it was, and you are saying that the Professor seemed to believe his own triggers. It is quite possible that you might be right."
"I remember how his protective shields wavered, and how he rushed across to the Death Eaters."
"And at that moment Voldemort announced that Harry Potter was dead. Hermione missed the blow, and that nasty Dolokhov spell that almost killed her after the Battle in the Ministry flew into her."
Draco sighed deeply and covered his face with his hands.
"We are idiots, Lavender, even if we claim to be psychologists. Imagine the situation the godfather was in: he heard that Potter was dead, we lost, and the next second Herm lost her consciousness, and then the rest of the Death Eaters rushed at us. Of course, he did the only thing he could in that situation."
"He hid behind the shields of Occlumency."
"Exactly. And then, suddenly, he feels that the Pumpkin is alive, he feels her magic, senses her emotions, but the last thing he remembers is how I pulled her away from the debris of the ceiling that had collapsed on our heads."
"But this is our much needed stressful situation, Malfoy," Lavender suddenly exclaimed, "they can manage!"
However, Hermione did not share the opinions of her friends. Severus' cold detachment, his distant gaze, hidden fear splashing in the impenetrable pools of his eyes. Someone could call her a pathetic fool, but she knew the truth, and the truth hurt.
The night before that damned Battle, that claimed the lives of so many people dear to her, and turned the survivors into pitiful shells of once happy people, she and Severus spent the last peaceful evening by the burning fire in his Slytherin chambers. She didn't want to speak or confess possible powerlessness, just as she didn't want to make loud promises or ardent confessions in illusory feelings. Everything that connected her and Snape was too fragile to even try to give it a name.
She watched for a long time as the fire licked the tar drops from the juniper branches, which they, obeying the ancient tradition, lit today to ward off evil spirits, and then whispered into the darkness as if fearing to say the words out loud:
"I'm scared, Severus, not that we might die, but how meaningless we have lived our lives."
"Only fools or the dead are not afraid, Hermione, fortunately, we are neither the first nor the second," Severus replied after some silence and, stirring up the heat in the fireplace, moved closer. "I won't let you die, Pumpkin, I swear.
Angry, annoyed tears choked Hermione now, but she knew that tears could not help her grief, so sleepless nights, meaningless calculations, and that damned February with its cold desperate thoughts, penetrating her heart, awaited her.
She hadn't expected a miracle, magical oaths were too serious a thing to dare not take into account, and Occlument, like Severus, could well have made the current state of affairs his conscious choice. He believed that he had broken his oath to Hermione and could not manage to save Harry, therefore his magic demanded its price.
Hermione put aside the cup of chamomile tea that Draco had thoughtfully left for her, and began to prepare the ingredients for the Skelegro, just to keep her hands busy and calm her heavy thoughts.
Severus got out of his stupor and began to wander through the corridors, probably somewhere in the Halls of His Mind, he still thought that he was patrolling the corridors of Hogwarts, therefore, hearing his usual steps, Hermione was not surprised. In any case, he made progress: he reacted to sounds, to touch, played chess with Minerva, looked out for something in the windows covered with frosty patterns, dutifully accepted potions and draughts from Draco, ate his soup, and drank his black coffee. Everything was familiar, except for one thing: Professor Snape was just a shell of himself, a barely audible echo, a barely visible reflection of the past. But he froze in the doorway as if he was consciously watching Hermione's work, and for a moment it seemed to her that everything was as before, she was being trained under his patronage and no despair or dull annoyance was chocking her heart.
And Snape saw a tired woman immersed in herself, who no longer saw any reason to move on as if she were walking in pitch darkness through a dense forest and understood that she would never find a road to the sun. She kept glancing at the crazy February blizzard that enclosed everything in an impenetrable white cocoon and did not at all notice that her cauldron melted, that she forgot to add moonstone pollen, and that an explosion was about to happen.
But could this be possible? Snape clearly remembered the lifeless body of Hermione, the desperate Draco trying to hide her from the debris, and the wild boundless emptiness inside his soul: he had lost, he had failed to keep his vow.
A crack suddenly appeared in the cold that bound his heart. As water rips open the ice crust, so a barely audible timid voice of hope made itself known. Maybe a miracle happened at the last moment, and they managed to save Hermione?
Snape did not have time to come up with the idea: his reflexes worked instantly and the skillful Protego enveloped Hermione in an impenetrable shield, saving her from the hot splashes of the exploded potion.
And again, as many years ago, she clung to him like a lifeline, still not believing, not fully understanding what was happening, she sniffled and still could not stop her sobs. And he awkwardly put his arms around her and whispered all kinds of nonsense: that she was safe, and nothing terrible had happened, and that everything was over, and that he was there. He himself could hardly believe what he was saying, but Hermione was in his embrace again. And she was alive.
"Pumpkin... Oh, Pumpkin."