Needless to say that Hermione never went to the Order of the Phoenix that night…
She wasn't even a tiny bit ashamed when she, silent and thoughtful, listened to the last edifications of her friends, promised, with a nod, to take care of herself and hid the Invisibility Cloak in her bag. It seemed that Harry and Ron were not at all surprised by her behaviour, attributing it to her fatigue after another detention in the dungeons, weighed down by the destruction of a Horcrux. It was scary to think how much sedative potion would be needed if they knew that the girl was mentally descending into the creepy dungeons – a spiral staircase, a corner, forty steps down, another corner, a corridor, a corner, forty steps again…Had he returned yet? She'd check his office, knock on his bedroom door (had she lost her mind completely?) and then she'd wait. He wouldn't be able to apparate directly into his quarters – no one, except their damn Lord, had lifted the anti-apparition barrier. So, Voldemort expected his servants to rush to him in hot haste and on return they were supposed to walk back on their own two feet in order not to lose their physical form? Anyway, that meant that the professor would have to walk along the corridors – if she took a strategic post at the door of his office…
"…Do you promise?"
Harry looked at her expectantly. The girl hastily went through the options in her head of what he could have asked for. To be careful? Say hello to Ginny? To send them a message as soon as she made it to the Order? Well, what did it matter?
"I do."
How indescribably good it was when you could trust your friends! It was so nice to know that they would not take advantage of your momentary confusion, would not force you to make the Unbreakable Vow in order to do some abomination. The Death Eaters, despite their long acquaintance, could hardly boast of such friendship. Hermione wondered if Professor Snape has ever trusted anyone so implicitly.
Her train of thoughts were interrupted when she was hugged. Harry? No, this time it was Ron. Though, Harry joined them in the next second. As if they were saying goodbye for good. The boys' faces were concentrated and gloomy as though they were seeing Hermione off not to the Order of the Phoenix, but… Hang on. Perhaps, they knew? No, no need to be ridiculous. The bloody Legilimency – she grew too accustomed to it. The eternal fear that someone could read her thoughts in her eyes.
The boys were just scared. Her brave Gryffindor daredevils simply didn't want to let her go, because they had never fought apart before, because they were searching for the fragments of the soul of the darkest wizard of their time, because, after all, they were only seventeen…
"Don't forget to take your cat. With Spring coming soon, I'm worried about McGonagall!"
Idiots!...
What would she do without them?
It was hard to imagine seven years in Hogwarts without these thick-headed, lazy, reckless, but such-dear-to-her idiots… How did Professor Snape cope with everything alone? Did he know differently? Did he want to?
It was time to end the farewell – she had long been far away with her thoughts: a spiral staircase, a corner, forty steps down… No point to indulge in nostalgia… Besides, perhaps she'd be back in two hours or so – straight after she had made sure that her Professor Snape was alive.
And unharmed.
And didn't hate her.
Her Professor Snape? Cripes…
XXX
He hadn't changed the password for entering the laboratory; of course, there had been no time for that.
'Solanum nigrum'. Black nightshade. Her memory readily opened the respective page of the Encyclopaedia of Magical Plants and Herbs: black, poisonous, widespread on roadsides, dumps and wastelands…
Who would choose such a disgusting thing as a password? What could she possibly have in common with a man who himself resembled that nightshade… Black. Poisonous…Where the hell was he at half past one in the morning?!
"Quanticio," Hermione checked the number of people in the quarters just in case, although it was clear even without the spell: if the professor had returned from his friendly meeting, the chance for her to enter his lab again would be pretty fat.
Half past one. She'd open the door of his office only to not miss his return. What was there to lose, really – one invasion more, one invasion less. Not a great time for scrupulousness. Besides, he had thrown her out anyway. From his office, from his lab… from his heart? Merlin, what was she thinking about, foolish girl! Severus would wince at her cheesy love thoughts.
'Severus? So, he's just Severus now, is he?' But his name sunk onto her tongue as easily and naturally as a smooth stone heated by the seashore sun sinks into a hand. It would take all of her vaunted Gryffindor courage to call him that out loud. After the way they had parted, anything could be expected from him – she wouldn't be surprised if he simply laughed in her face, stubborn Slytherin serpent!
What if he really laughed in her face? What would she say if, in a minute or two, he crossed the threshold of his office, looked at her as he had done back when he had thrown her out two hours ago… if he repeated with the same poorly concealed disappointment: 'Be gone'…
She'd better not think about it. Her craving for knowledge would, one day, be the end of her. It was necessary to occupy herself with something, or she'd be completely bananas by his arrival.
Hermione shrank her bag and put it inside her robes pocket – given the state of her confusion, she could easily lose all her belongings, including the precious Invisibility Cloak. She took a jar of dried termites from the rack, then a heavy marble mortar with a pestle that had tarnished over many years of use and began to measure the required doses on the scales. Tomorrow morning the professor was having DADA class with the junior year and then Advanced Potions – this was nothing to sneeze at.
According to the curriculum, the seventh year would study Potion of Levitation tomorrow – one of the most difficult potions: forty-three components, four heating modes. It was necessary to grind four pounds of termites for the lesson, or perhaps even five pounds, considering the usual waste of the boneheaded students. And then to prepare Wintercreeper, wings of Glumbumble, roots of Adoxa Moschatellina, secretion of Bundimun and toad droppings…
What had he been thinking about, relieving her of her detention?! Was he intending to prepare for the classes all night long? Without any sleep?! That's why he was always as fierce and poisonous as a Manticore! Insufferable, vindictive, obstinate mule! No doubt that, as soon as he saw her in his lab, he'd wince as if from a toothache and hiss: 'I thought I made myself clear, Miss Granger…'
Stop, termites need to be ground, not pulverized into atoms…
'Professor, I came to apologise…'
No, not that… One has to think before one acts, not apologise. Rather than practice 'Reparo', it's better not to break things, you foolish Gryffindor head…
Perhaps she'd better pretend that nothing had happened?
'Professor, is it okay that the termites are ground finer than usual? They will interact better with deer blood this way.'
'Be gone, Hermione.' Yes, that's exactly what he would say… The words vibrated in the air, echoing in her with a strange half-syncopal rumble… Hermione thought that if she heard them again from his mouth, she would collapse right on the cold floor of the dungeons as if cursed with Avada. It looked like the professor had invented her personal Killing Spell.
'Be gone.'
The memory was so sharp that she flinched, dropping a bellied jar and spilling its contents on the floor. Floppy-eared Merlin! It was pollen of St John's wort! A whole jar!
She shuddered to think how long it had taken to collect so much pollen. Snape would most definitely kill her now. She couldn't blame him – she'd kill herself as well. Hermione hastily repaired the jar and, with the help of a spell, collected the scattered yellow particles off the floor. Yet, plenty were still missing. Most likely they had settled on the furniture and she had inhaled some for sure. Ahchoo!
What was she going to say on his return?
'Professor, I'm sorry…'
'Professor, I ruined your pollen of Hypericum, may I collect a new jar for you? Or set me a new detention…'
'Professor, forgive me and don't turn away from me, don't destroy everything with a single scrape of your quill. It's killing me.'
'Professor, I think I love you…'
The minute hand of the wall clock clattered softly as it passed the six. Hermione relinquished her hold and the ill-fated jar plunged onto the stone floor again…
Half past two…
He had never been so late before…
'Yet, he had never left in such disarray and without the Pensieve either,' a nasty trembling voice inside Hermione's head told her.
The girl sank powerlessly onto the cold stone, half a step away from the shattered jar. She had to postpone the preparation of the ingredients – her hands were shaking so much that the most delicate job that she could be entrusted with was forest felling. Even though there was a high chance that her axe would miss a tree.
What if he didn't return?
Ever…
Hermione barely recognized her own voice in the muffled half-whine that came out of her mouth. No! She shouldn't think about it. Wasn't Severus Snape one of the most powerful wizards in Britain? If the nasty cowardly rat-like bastards like Pettigrew were still alive, then he would most definitely extricate himself. Yes, in a minute or two, he'd cross the threshold… Gloomy, exhausted, hungry…
Crap! She'd almost forgotten! All that hassle and her head injury had completely discombobulated her. The girl hastily called a house-elf for muffins and cocoa. The sullen creature measured the mess on the floor, the centre of which was Hermione, with a wary gaze and placed the tray on the cluttered desk, trying not to disturb the variegated ingredients. The smell of fresh pastries brought the girl to her senses a little, she automatically waved her wand, repairing the unlucky jar again, and got to her feet.
She'd tell him 'Forgive me'.
For his spoiled potion.
For his stolen wand.
For the runes.
For breaking through his doors.
For her reckless trick with the locket in front of a ministerial inspection.
For the Pensieve.
For Harry and his shameless manner of gutting other people's cupboards.
For the kiss under Imperio – no! She won't apologise for that!
For stupid muffins and cocoa, both of which he probably detests.
For the flobberworms.
For the spilled pollen.
For really thinking back then in class that he would have given her a torture potion.
For making him cast the Fiendfyre that had nearly killed both of them.
For making him vulnerable.
For letting her prejudice obscure the truth.
For seeing him in the same way as everyone else did, although he had let her get a lot closer than them.
For wishing him harm all that time – and now, thanks to her prayers, he…
If only he'd let her finish. Or even to start… One short 'Silencio' and she'd be left to confess the main thing to his locked door.
Suddenly, the solution to the problem came all by itself – she had to catch him at the beginning of the anti-apparition barrier: then he would not be able to get rid of her so quickly. Depending on the length of his strides, it would give her five to ten minutes of conversation. Of course, he could cast a 'Silencio' and a 'Petrificus Totalus' onto her outside the castle as well, but, most likely, the proximity of Dementors would prevent him from that. Annoyed, offended, furious – he'd still not leave her in danger. The realisation of this was warm and bitter at the same time. For some reason, the same thought that would have caused her only a hysterical laugh three hours ago now seemed completely obvious – he didn't wish her any harm, he would save her.
Having decided that, Hermione hastily transfigured her school robes into a warm jacket, comfortable enough to run after her potentially resisting interlocutor. She hesitated for a moment, looking around the laboratory: ingredients scattered around his desk, the pollen spilled on the floor, the mortar half-filled with termites, a measuring spoon soiled with secretion – perhaps it was not the most optimal environment for improving the professor's mood…Yet, if the conversation didn't succeed, the mess would be the least of her problems, and if it went well, she'd be ready to wash his precious desk from sticky juice of Euphorbia and the termite corpses adhering to it till breakfast.
Hermione looked anxiously at the clock – ten to three. Grabbing an unbearably fragrant muffin from the plate (it was absolutely impossible to resist the cinnamon aroma), she ran out of the laboratory.
XXX
While she ran along the corridors, outstripping even the Dementors silently sliding along the walls, there was such a logical line of thought in her head that even the very object of her worries would envy, if he ever condescended to such a confession. The anti-apparition barrier encircled the castle like a sphere, therefore the professor could only return by the three available roads: from the lake, from the Whomping Willow or from the Forbidden Forest. The latter option was the most likely in her opinion – to deal with the mad tree early in the morning would hardly appeal to the headmaster and the road from the lake was too steep and winding – after all, a broken neck wouldn't benefit even an extremely powerful wizard. So, the Forbidden Forest then… Also in its favour was the fact that Hagrid had once said that the Carrows apparated from their filthy meetings right under the windows of his hut. Hermione could but hope that Professor Snape wouldn't be eccentric in this case.
The stone gargoyle at the main exit – a hideous scaly creature – demandingly stretched out its clawed paw for her wand. Hermione had to relinquish it – this time there was no one there who could say that she was with him… Never mind, judging by the time, the return of the headmaster was to be expected any minute now – perhaps she'd even meet him halfway. In his presence she'd be in no danger. Except the one that emanated from him, but he wouldn't harm her!
Black snow instantly dug its small sharp claws into her face, scratching and abrading it. It was especially painful for her lips that were pretty swollen from her previous tears – the girl hastily protected them under her scarf. The Dark Mark in the sky painted the snow covering the ground in a deathly dirty green. How could one possibly distinguish something, or someone, at all in such a raging blizzard?
She sprinted towards the Forest – her previous reasoning about broken necks somehow unobtrusively lost its relevance as soon as it had become clear that the headmaster was nowhere in sight. Something icy crawled under her skin, squeezing her throat – Hermione could've sworn that it wasn't just the December cold…
He had never returned later than two, not even on Halloween when Voldemort had been especially active… How was this time different from the others? Fatheaded, brainless idiot! The difference was that today Severus had destroyed a Horcrux. With his own Fiendfyre… Besides, thanks to her omnipresent omniscience he had gone to the Lord without using the Pensive first…
Yet, he was an outstanding Occlumens. He could hide his feelings, emotions and recollections to such depths of his memory that… Oh, Merlin! Yes, he could do so, but only if he knew that they must be hidden! The cold crept down her throat, binding her shoulders, squeezing her lungs, forcing her to take convulsive, abrupt breaths. What had she done?!
The Forbidden Forest arose in front of her like a solid black wall – not a gap or a flaw – silent and motionless. Hermione peered at the outlines of the trees on its border, hoping to notice the slightest movement, to hear the quietest sound. Yet, all that her ears could grasp in the tense night silence were the crying of dry branches snapping in the stiff wind and the crunching of the snow under her feet. Maybe she had missed him? Had been distracted by an attempt to pull the sleeves of her jacket over her freezing palms and hadn't noticed her black-clothed professor in the black blizzard against the background of the black Forest? However, in the deep brittle snow there were no traces that would have inevitably remained if he had apparated here. Hermione took a few more steps, sinking almost knee-deep in a snowdrift. No one. She stood still for a few more seconds, piercing the darkness with her eyes, then turned around and rushed back. Sprinting up the snowy road was hard; the girl panted for breath, swallowing black and white snowflakes, and blew heavily through her nostrils. Up, to the castle's front doors and then, along another road, to the lake. If she kept running, five minutes would be enough for her. She'd go only half of the way, only to check whether his silhouette was visible in the glow of the damn Mark. If not, she'd dash back, he wouldn't be able to slip past her as he'd hardly be in a similar hurry.
From a fast run, her lungs burned with fire, as though she had drunk some disgusting acidic potion. She felt so feverishly hot that she wanted to tear off her jacket along with her sweater, but instead she simply pulled down her scarf and loosened her collar, freeing her damp neck.
The lake below, frozen at its centre and with thaw-patched edges in places where it was fed by shallow subterraneous springs, looked like a bowl of spinach soup in the light of the Dark Mark. The girl froze in the middle of the slope, squinting and peering intensely, already noticing in her own eyes the treacherous flicker of approaching tears. No one.
Up to the castle and down to the Forest again. This time she could barely see the road due to tears obscuring her view. The cold picked them up on her cheeks, trying to turn them into prickly, icy crusts, but Hermione's face was burning, and any snowflake that touched it turned into water mixing with salt and corroding her lips.
He hadn't returned.
He would never return!
"Severus!" she shouted towards the Forest, coughed and loudly burst into sobs.
Silence.
Almost at Hagrid's hut, next to a rickety fence, she stumbled over a rock hidden by a snowbank and flopped down onto her knees. The girl tried to get up, but she only had enough strength to whine quietly and to fall, face down, into the prickling, biting snow. He hadn't returned… Hermione never suspected that psychic pain could be so excruciating. Her heart, throbbing in her throat, sent waves of despair and inhuman horror. She would not make it through the night! Because if one could die of terror, then she would die today – in the flipping blizzard near the damn Forest!
What had he done to her, without a potion or a spell, purely by the mere fact of his existence? It must have been some sort of Imperio. How else to explain that more than anything in the world she simply wanted to see his face?
She didn't even care anymore whether he'd forgive her or threw her out again. Suddenly the most frightening words turned into the most desired ones – 'Be gone, Hermione'… They would mean that he was alive. She'd be gone – away, out, to hell, to Salazar, to Voldemort himself – just, please, return alive! What had he done to her? How had he turned upside down within a few hours everything she had known and believed in? White, black – all down the drain, as though there had never been these six and half years of fight, when the world had seemed so clear. Dumbledore, Voldemort, his Dark Mark, the prophecy – she'd forgive him all of it. No, that was wrong. She had forgiven him all of it. Wrong again. There was nothing to forgive as none of that mattered! Bastard! He knew that now she couldn't live in peace because of him, that she'd be waiting for him, fearing for him, reminiscing his voice… But, of course, he didn't. How could he have known if all of this had been a startling revelation of the past few hours even to herself? He had gone to his damn Master, thinking that she despised him. Fool! If only he returned. Alive. Her woe, her happiness, her lo… Merlin, was he really? Yes! Her love!
Her howls were so desperate that they could easily draw Dementors. Or students. Or the most frightening dark creatures of the Forest, who would mistake her for one of their own. She didn't care. Intense sobs shook Hermione's body like electric shocks. She barely had time to gasp for air with choking on snow, coughs, tears and his name.
Only Merlin and all of his countless pairs of drawers knew how long she had been lying in the snow before she heard a crack of apparition. Hermione pressed her hand to her mouth, muffling her uncontrollable sobbing, and tried to distinguish the wizard who had just apparated. It was quite difficult not only because of his black cloak against the background of the black Forest, but also due to the fact that, after crying for such a long time, she was now experiencing double vision. Or was she?
The girl blinked, trying to bring the picture back into focus. Yet, there were still two figures – the Carrows? However, after a moment, one of the shadows suspiciously hastily sunk onto the ground, and the second pulled back his hood revealing shining platinum blond hair. Malfoy? Hermione huddled up – she was less than a hundred feet away from the two Death Eaters, without a wand and the worst of all was that her friends wouldn't even look for her, confident that she was, by now, safely drinking tea in the Order of the Phoenix! What was she going to do? She couldn't send her Patronus with a request for help because a) she didn't know how to, b) she had no wand. She couldn't transfigure her black jacket into a white one, in order to merge with the snow, for the same wandless reason. To knock Malfoy unconscious with a couple of spells – same story. Only now she felt completely the whole depth of abomination that her Gryffindor allies had done to Severus. The freaking avengers…
However, before Hermione had time to fully admit to her own powerlessness, Draco's father disapparated with a familiar crack and the former silence reigned. Her own hoarse breathing seemed almost thunderous to the girl.
The second person continued to lay in the snow, motionless and speechless, the scattered hem of his cloak made him look like a winged bird.
"Severus?"
Hermione found herself halfway to the place from which Malfoy had just disapparated – her common sense had obviously been washed away by her last stream of tears. How else could one explain that even the Death Eater's cloak and disgusting white mask hiding the face of the wizard lying on the ground hadn't stopped her? She knelt down so swiftly near the body that a fountain of sharp snowflakes arose into the air. After a moment the majority of them settled onto the man's black clothes, making it shimmer like the night sky.
What if it really was Carrow? Or any one of the hundreds of Voldemort's loyal servants? She wouldn't even have time to mention Merlin as she'd be staring at the Dark Mark with dead eyes. And then no one would help her: neither the Order of the Phoenix, nor Harry, nor even Professor Snape with all his desire and dark talents in the field of potions, because there was no antidote to 'Avada Kedavra'. Perhaps she'd better return to the castle and call for help – the troubles for being out of bed after lights out were nothing in comparison to the Killing Curse.
However, if it was Severus…
Her hands were shaking not from cold as she pulled up the white, skull-like mask. Sharp cheekbones, hooked nose, pitchy eyelashes that seemed, in the wrong light of the Mark, almost an inch long. Five minutes ago she was ready to betray all the forces of Light for the opportunity to see this face again.
"P-professor," she said hoarsely, struggling to master her own voice. "Professor, are you alive?"
Silence. She shook the man lightly by his shoulders, trying to discern even the slightest change in his pale, marble-like face.
"Professor Snape? Sir?"
Nothing. With trembling fingers, she pulled the strings of his cloak, pushed aside the collar of his shirt, trying to take his pulse. Yet, this attempt was in vain due to the nervous tremor of her hands. Hermione unshrouded the folds of his cloak and put her ear to the man's chest, simultaneously noticing that her cheek touched something wet, but all her worries were drowned by a stream of supreme happiness – alive!
Hermione laughed almost hysterically – a couple more days like this and she'd keep Lockhart company at St Mungo's for sure. Hermione snuggled her burning forehead against his neck… and recoiled from the sharp smell of iron. Her heart, which had only just returned to its rightful place, dashed back to her throat. She wouldn't mistake this smell from a thousand others. This was the smell of blood…
She pulled away almost in a jerk, cursing the absence of any light source other than the dim green Mark above her head. However, this was enough...The headmaster's entire body was as if torn apart by the claws of an unknown ferocious beast. Deep wounds crossed his chest, shoulders and abdomen, forming an unthinkable intricate geometric pattern. The fabric of his clothes, cut into rags, was soaked through with blood.
Sectumsempra. Hermione had never seen before the horrifying effect of this curse invented by the Half-Blood Prince. She had only heard how Harry's voice quavered when he had told them about the result of his duel with Draco. Yet, she had no doubts – this was it.
She had to act and quickly – even her tears had dried from the fright. She'd levitate the headmaster to the Hospital Wing with his own wand and then she'd pray that not only the creator of the dark curse, but Madame Pomfrey as well knew how to heal the consequences of it. Trying her best not to burst into tears again, Hermione bent over her poor thing, groping in the pockets of his clothes for his wand.
Her hands, as though on purpose, stumbled upon one open wound after another, sliding over the blood-soaked fabric and raising more and more waves of the sickening metallic smell into the air. Where the hell was his wand?!
"Twenty points from Gryffindor," a voice that sounded more like the crack of a windblown branch rasped above her ear, "for prowling after lights out, Granger."
Never before, in the entire centuries-old history of Hogwarts, had the deduction of points from Gryffindor caused such an irrepressible, sincere joy from the Gryffindorians themselves. To the silent amazement of the professor, Hermione laughed quite happily, accompanying herself on her snivelling nose. Her nervous tension was betrayed only by the tears bursting free again. Hearing his voice, prophesying arbitrarily gloomy prospects for her House, was akin to a miracle. As though this whole crazy night was receding, leaving them as they had used to be: her – self-collected and confident, and him – sarcastic and unharmed.
"Your hysterics are all I need right now," her precious professor hissed. Though, his hiss turned out rather pathetic – not a patch on his usual one. Yet, the recent events had taught Hermione to be thankful for small mercies. "Where are we and what time is it?"
"Around four a.m., near Hagrid's hut," the girl answered hastily.
The professor tried to raise himself up on his elbows, didn't succeed and measured the girl with a long, unblinking glare. It was understandable – Hermione looked, at that minute, like a frog's liver crushed in a mortar. Not a face, but a reddened, wet, swollen mess. Not the best way to appear in front of the well-beloved. The girl embarrassedly removed her gaze from the professor and added for some reason:
"Malfoy brought you here."
"Did he? And how did you have the brains not to try to intercept him in a fit of Gryffindor idiocy?"
"I left my wand in the castle… You know… By the new Ministerial Order…"
Snape swore with especial sophistication, and it seemed that he had wasted his last strength on the selection of those epithets, because he closed his eyes and fell silent for several endless moments.
"We need to take you to the Hospital Wing," Hermione said, pulling herself together. His sarcastic manner created the illusion of protection, but she had to remember that now, for a change, she had to take care of him, not vice versa. "Allow me to use your wand –"
"What the Salazar were you thinking, going to the Forbidden Forest without a wand?" with her help, the headmaster finally managed to sit up, leaning his back against a gnarled trunk. The rest of his speech was muttered through clenched teeth. Apparently from pain rather than anger. "Was it worth saving you from Carrow all these months if you throw yourself at the first Death Eater you see? This might not have been me, and you are quite mediocre at protective charms even with your wand…"
'What the Salazar'? To wait for you, you spiteful bat! Would it kill you to say 'I'm hurt. The Dark Lord gutted me with my own spell. I can't walk, take my wand and levitate me.' But no, he'd rather have a passionate prelude full of disparaging words! Stubborn, bilious Slytherin… Should she tell him right now that she's madly in love with him in order to erase that supercilious smirk?
A groan that involuntarily escaped his thin lips made the girl flinch as if being hit. Merlin, he was just hurt! And frightened… And cold…And he was spending the last of his strength putting on a mask of omnipotence in front of her, the stupid girl: either in order not to damage his reputation, or, most likely, to irritate her – as everyone knew, anger was the best way to cope with fear and hysteria. After a slap, of course, but he would not manage that in his condition.
"We need to take you to the Hospital Wing," she repeated, ignoring his poisonous speech. "Allow me to use your wand, I'll levitate you."
"If I had a wand, Miss Granger, I would have given it to you long ago," his black eyes stared at her without blinking, making him look even more like a dishevelled bird. "Or do you think it gives me great pleasure to see your face again, after I believed that I had finally parted with you forever? Have you seen yourself in the mirror recently? Your appearance could scare even a rabid manticore."
If the headmaster hoped to offend Hermione by mentioning her creepy look, then his plan had failed miserably. From the moment that she had heard about his lack of a wand, his scathing comments lost the remnants of what little power they had had over her. All the way up to the castle front doors spread itself, as if on a map, before her inner gaze. If it had taken her ten minutes to get here by running, then the chances of delivering a seriously wounded man, who could not even sit up without help, were equal to zero. Only now the girl realised the horror of the situation in which they had found themselves. Tears began streaming down her face again; she gritted her teeth in order not to howl with despair and helplessness and breathed:
"Who should I call for help?"
Snape, however, took her tears as a reaction to his harshness, so he smiled weakly, but quite contentedly:
"No need to be so upset – I'm sure there will be less impressionable men who won't be intimidated by your appearance. Almost certainly such brave hearts will be from Gryffindor."
"Who should I call? Madam Pomfrey? Professor McGonagall? Sir, who should I call!" panic notes rang in Hermione's voice.
"Don't be ridiculous, Granger," he said on the verge of audibility. "You can call the entire Hogwarts to come and enjoy the spectacle – I'm a dead man anyway. Our matron, for your information, doesn't specialise in dark curses, and your venerable Head would be good enough only to finish me off out of Gryffindor chivalry."
Hermione asked in the same whisper as if not wanting to break the uncomfortable silence, but in fact simply fearing to hear his answer:
"What should I do?"
"I told you a few hours ago – be gone."
Hermione read his last words by his lips – her professor closed his eyes and began falling onto his side, losing consciousness again.
The girl bit her lip, holding back uncontrollable sobs, and grabbed Snape by his shoulders, preventing his fall. She'd not be able to deliver him to the castle alive, with such a blood loss his heart would stop before the school's doors appeared! Potion! He needed a Blood-Replenishing Potion! Sectumsempra couldn't be cured by common healing charms, but the potion would replenish his lost blood and help him last until… Until what, you stupid girl?!
The damn potion – she had packed some, preparing to leave Hogwarts! However, at the moment, her bag lay in her robes pocket, reduced to the size of a matchbox, and there was absolutely no chance to retrieve its contents without returning it to its true size first! And she had no wand! Everything was against them this night… What was she supposed to do? Run to the castle? The gargoyle wouldn't let her take out her wand and the brooms were usually locked up at night… To wake Ron up? Or Zabini? Or any pureblood wizard – even Professor McGonagall! Contrary to the headmaster's opinion, the Head of Gryffindor would never be able to leave one in danger… Yet, with such a blood loss, if the wounds didn't kill Severus, the cold would.
The Potion! Damn! She was dealing with a Potions Master – he simply must have a supply in the pockets of his robes. The girl began hastily groping in the professor's clothes. Yep! A whole pile of unbreakable vials! If only she could distinguish them by their colour in the green twilight… Black? No, it seemed dark red. Hermione opened the phial and sniffed its content – it smelled of mugwort. A universal Blood-Replenishing Potion, judging by the strength of the aroma – a concentrated one. It would buy them some time… Please! She'd never ask for anything again!
"Professor!"
No reaction.
Grabbing the unconscious wizard by his armpits, Hermione jerked him, moving him twelve inches. Why, of course! Now he was going to defiantly die on her watch! And then this irredeemable woe would be the death of her! Tears poured from the girl's eyes in a continuous stream, accompanied by inhuman howls bursting from inside. A few more inches. And again. Sinking in the snow, the professor's body left a deep furrow, stained dark red. Unbearable, insufferable man! 'Be gone'! As if! What did he take her for? A complete fool? Scoundrel! He made her fall in love with him! Bound her to himself! Tighter than the Unbreakable Vow! And then had fled to his damn Lord! To die! Bastard! Please, stay alive!
"Se-e-everus," Hermione whined, gasping from tears and her efforts.
There were about ten feet left to Hagrid's hut – she'd manage, but how was she going to lift him up the steps?
Lowering her precious load onto the ground, the girl rushed towards ice-glazed pumpkins and retrieved a heavy carved key from beneath the biggest one. If she had her wand, she'd be able to open the door with a simple 'Alohomora', of course, but...
A moment later a familiar cluttered room appeared in front of Hermione. It had never been particularly clean even during the best years, and now, uninhabited and dusty, it looked especially dull.
Never mind – it would give him shelter. If only Hagrid was here!
"Severus! Professor! Please!" Hermione had never begged anyone so desperately.
The headmaster's black eyes, clouded with pain and blood loss, opened slightly. He looked like he didn't fully realise who was in front of him (or rather, above him).
"Here, P-professor, take this!" Hermione thought that she'd better check his pockets for calming drops – with the way her hands were trembling it was possible not only to knock out the professor's teeth with the phial, but also to miss the hut's entrance.
Snape swallowed the potion without a wince – the main component was rotted mouse dropping, by the way! Even though it smelled of mugwort.
"Help me, sir! We have to walk up the steps."
Putting his arm around her neck, Hermione pulled him up with the last of her strength. The headmaster remained silent, clinging to the protruding stones of Hagrid's hut with his thin fingers and moving his legs with great difficulty. A few steps more…They staggered into the hut completely exhausted. Hermione leaned Snape against the wall. He frantically grabbed the doorframe with both hands, trying to maintain an upright position.
"Hold on! Just a second!"
The room was dark, only a dirty green square of light from the window streamed down the back of a high chair onto the dusty floor. Matches were on the mantelpiece – she knew that. Damp from the constant wet weather of recent months, they broke in her shaking hands one after another.
"Hold on…"
She managed to light the candles only on the fourth attempt, the flame fluttered from the wind, greedily reaching up. The fireplace? No, there was no time to kindle damp wood without magic…
Hermione darted towards a huge, made bed, wondering whether she'd manage to put the professor onto it. Not a chance – the bed was too high, almost reaching Hermione's chest. She pulled a heavy duvet off the bed; it was wet from the omnipresent dampness – damn Voldemort and his endless rains! Never mind, it was still able to protect Snape from the draft on the floor. Hagrid's giant pillow was good enough to replace a mattress.
The girl rushed back to her professor when he began sliding down the wall. In the false flickering light of candles his blood seemed especially bright, almost unnatural. Hermione took him by his arms and dragged him towards the improvised bed on the floor. His strength was only enough to take the last sip of dark red potion and then, once again, he left her alone with her aching otherworldly horror.
"Severus!"
With reddened stiff fingers, she began to remove his cloak, ripping off the fasteners of the-torn-by-the-dark-spell fabric. The bloody wounds twined around his body like thin red ribbons. Hermione howled out loud:
"Severus! Please, I beg you!"
What exactly she was begging him for remained unknown even to herself. At this moment there was nothing but pain – one for the two of them.
Hermione pulled her scarf from her neck and began awkwardly applying it as a tourniquet around his leg. Crap, it had to be above the wound, not on top of it! Who would have thought that her first aid classes in the Muggle school could ever be of use in the wizarding world? Or that she would ever kneel beside someone, drowning in his blood and dreaming she'd rather it was hers?
"Severus!" another sob.
She had to rip the damp sheets from the middle by her teeth first and then tear them apart with shaking hands into wide strips. The wounds caused by Sectumsempra could not be healed in the conventional way – she had no illusions, but she could tighten them up, connecting the edges and reducing blood loss. This would help her professor to hold on until the real help… If she ever managed to figure out where to get that help from…
Bandaging an unconscious person was even more difficult than dragging him through deep snowdrifts. His forehead pressed against her shoulder, his hair, wet with snow and blood, hung lifeless on either side of his face, making him look like a broken doll. Hermione had problems managing her tensed hands, but she continued clumsily putting dressings onto his bleeding wounds, whimpering barely audibly with fear. He couldn't die! Not like this! That's too easy for you, Professor, can you hear? Too easy!
Hermione lowered him onto the pillow, carefully supporting his head. The sheets, the pillowcase, the duvet – everything was soaked with his blood. As well as all of her clothes and her hands, cupping his pale face like the Holy Grail. She hated one of the Gryffindor colours from now on! Hated it! A heavy sickening smell enmeshed her like a spider's web.
"Severus!"
Even if she retrieved a wand somewhere, only the headmaster knew the contra-spell for that dark curse…
"Severus, please…"
His face remained motionless resembling a plaster cast. She had lost him… No, she had killed him! With her mistrust, her rat curiosity, her cracker-barrel sense of justice!
"Severus…"
Never in her life had she cried so bitterly and had called someone as inconsolably as she did during this endless night. Hermione desperately kissed thin vertical wrinkles on his forehead, his sharp cheekbones, his compressed bloodless lips that smelled of mugwort.
And then his black eyes opened and another exclamation of his name froze on her lips with a half-sob…
Well, despite the agonising pain and stupefying weakness, a semi-corpse like him could not dream of a better awakening. Severus looked dumbfoundedly at the blubbered face of his saviour, stained with blood, and didn't regret much about his audience with the Dark Lord. Slytherins learned quite early that everything in life had a price. And today's Sectumsempra seemed to Snape as a fair one, given the current circumstances.
The girl looked petrified, glaring at the headmaster with an almost unconscious look, expecting at least a word that could confirm her happy vision and dispel the darkness.
"You ate my muffins," the professor suddenly accused her in a completely serious voice. "No need to deny it – you smell of cinnamon a mile away."
For a second or two Hermione stared at him in amazement, forgetting even to wipe her rolling tears, and then she laughed happily and a new wave of wet, cinnamon-aromatised kisses fell on Snape.
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" she admitted enthusiastically. "I ate your muffins! And I broke a jar of Hypericum pollen! And left the tritons' tails without the freezing spell, so they are, most likely, rotten! You'll just have to give me a new detention, sir!"
"Gryffindorian," Snape snorted benignly and almost sympathetically. "One should never admit one's wrongdoings so easily."
As his hand slid over her soiled cheek, he frowned and asked anxiously:
"I hope this is my blood? Not yours?"
"Y-yours," Hermione lost control of her trembling lips all over again. "I'll go get Ron. Just tell me, what spell should be used to cure the effects of Sectumsempra? I'll manage, just tell me what to do –"
"Weasley?" Snape interrupted, raising his eyebrow dramatically. "What the Sal… I mean, why?!"
"Ron can bring his wand here, he's…" Hermione averted her eyes, not wanting to pronounce the word 'Mudblood', remembering the last time. "He's a pureblood…"
"Merlin, why from all the wizarding world did you send me a Gryffindorian?" the professor grumbled wearily, but his hand, continuing to lightly caress her cheek, nullified all the poison of his phrase. "A Ministerial Decree said 'wands of Muggle-born students', and I fulfilled their demand precisely. Hermione, you cannot exit the castle carrying your own wand, but you can take outside any other one that belongs to a pureblood or a half-blood. No need to bring Weasley with you… Just borrow his wand."
Such a long speech seemed to tire him.
"And the spell?" Hermione chose not to waste time going into details of her idiocy.
"My office, the bottom drawer of my desk," Snape paused, gathering his strength. "The black notebook… the last page…"
"I'll be right back!" Hermione jumped to her feet.
"Wait! You can't take the notebook outside of my office… Protective charms… Just tear the page out."
Tear out a page? From Snape's notebook? He had requested it himself? No one would believe her. Although, most likely, rather than this, no one would believe that a second later Hermione Granger knelt back next to the vile Horror of the Dungeons, pulled Hagrid's duvet up to the professor's chin and, blushing like a Gryffindor flag, kissed him on the corner of his mouth. Everything that was happening resembled a feverish delirium.
Perhaps Gryffindorian descendants would compose legends about her recklessness and impudence. Yet, desperate times required desperate decisions… Would he push her away?
"Promise me that you'll live until my return! Promise that you'll be all right!" a hot whisper burned his lips.
"Silly Gryffindorian," Snape replied, not taking his searching eyes off her. "Go, and be careful."
"Promise me!" she demanded with great anguish. "Make the Unbreakable Vow!"
"The Unbreakable Vow that I won't die? And if I break it? Death? Silly, silly Gryffindorian…" he fingered the tangled strands of her hair. For a moment the girl thought that he was memorising her. "I'll be all right, Miss Granger, if you hurry."
In the next second the girl stood by the door.
"It's Hermione," she squeaked, crossing the threshold. No, before she'd insist on him using her first name, she'd better query: what had he meant by calling her 'Hermione' back in the dungeons?
The professor didn't reply, losing consciousness once again.