disclaimer: look at chapter 1-2
a/n: I'm REALLY sorry, you guys, but, I promise the sixth chapter will be coming out soon. I promise.
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CHAPTER FIVE: ALL SUICIDE VICTIMS EVER WANT
Time seemed to hold it's breath, the whole room was shaking with anticipation as the liquid flowed down into the girl's throat.
the muggle stories always ended
with a dawning realization
that all the suicide victim really wanted
was to be pulled back from the edge.
"NO!"
they always titter ... a bait
that lures Death
with his scythe raised
ready to strike...
Snape's mouth was agape. OVERDOSE. He recalled an article in the Opinions Section in the Daily Prophet that ridiculed muggle suicide methods. One was overdose. Primitive – the article had branded it – but very damn effective.
For a painless death.
But she had done more. He snuck a peak at the deep knife-wound and flinched. Blood, in extraordinary amounts, was pouring out, never ceasing. Profuse bleeding. He saw the knife she was holding – wax characters on the crimson-covered blade.
A MAGICAL BLADE?
"Hermione ... what have you done to-- "
But he stopped.
And remembered his own reasons.
The inadequate pain tolerance and the feeling of hopelessness eating you up from the inside in. it was torture and the only way you felt you could lessen it's hold on you was to make a hole for it to seep out.
And it flowed out too, scarlet fingers tracing your body, flowing out to become a puddle on the floor.
I don't want to close my eyes
and instead of seeing
a comforting blank blanket of
pure embracing black –
I see scenes of nights I fought to
Forget. Hands dashing back and forth
Over a fleshy plain –
Roaming, searching, groping . . .
PAIN.
I don't want to go to sleep anymore.
The girl beat her hands against his chest – in weak protest – giving each almost delicate shove her strength. Repulsion coursed through her as his body's compromising position forced her to relive scenes that flashed before her eyes.
She was choking.
She grabbed at his robes, pulling his face closer to hers. She could not see properly. She heard his ragged breathing next to her.
"Leave – me—alone ..."
He pushed her hands off of him, continuing his string of spells and charms and chants and difficult versus accompanied by various hand movements. Inside his head a thought kept resounding like a bell tolling, a painful reminder of Midnight and fear: EVERYBODY DESERVED TO BE SAVED!
He tilted her head slightly, bringing a cup of water to her lips and tipping it in to encourage her. She spat it out, blood starting to blossom from her mouth. She choked harder. The voice screamed louder. He was beginning to panic.
At a moment of desperation, as though the complete lack of solutions to his problem was choking him, forcing him to turn to basic survival instincts, he threw back his head and let out a yell – a cry for help, the only cry for help he has and ever will speak. And ... it was never for himself.
"LIVE!"
He gathered her body in his arms and brought them to the table, pushing away potion making ingredients, a cauldron and the girl's wand. He shoved them all to the floor violently.
"LIVE!" he commanded the girl, gently cradling her head now as he climbed on top of the table to her. He placed her head on his lap and picked up his wand and started his chanting, almost like a mantra now, a string of spells – all the spells – he believed would heal her.
"you bloody silly girl"
He looked at her pallid complexion and hated the color of her lifeless skin so much like his. He saw the wound that almost belched out blood below her lower left breast. Why didn't she aim for her heart? Perhaps, he answered trying his best to contain his tears, it was because she wanted to let the monster come out first, the pain that throbbed only within her – opening her human-skin like unzipping a bag – to be able to feel how it was when the pain didn't exist.
He breathed in, slowly, deeply, as a tear traced it's way down his cheek. DAMN.
He tried to collect his thoughts, turn them to the old, dusty volumes that he studied about the dark arts and the different forms of torture, he tried to focus on Magic Blade wounds. He remembered a fogy chapter about how a Magical Blade wound WOULD NOT HEAL until the torturer muttered a protected counter-curse. For someone besides the sadist to heal such a wound, they would need to find the counter-curse to stop the blood-flow – this was the very difficult part.
WHY MUST THIS GIRL BE SO DAMN INTELLIGENT?
He looked at Hermione's face and willed her eyes to open, willed with every fiber of his being that she was not the strong willed Gryffindor, determined to die. He wished, he willed for her to open her eyes and mutter the counter-curse. But she did not. So much for wishing.
Her arms were crossed across her chest. He only had to imagine her holding a bouquet of white lilies, and to be dressed in a white gown for her to mirror death. She had stopped struggling and lay quiet within the half circle of his limp arms.
Slowly, though he knew the timing was horrendous, he remembered her before, in Hogwarts, as she was. Spirited, the reincarnation of Rowena Ravenclaw with the heart and courage of Godric Gryffindor – the sympathy of Helga Hufflepuff and the cunning of Salazar Slytherin. It had been destiny, in a way, for her to end up loving the Potter-brat.
He stopped.
He stopped caring, stopped trying to remember and concentrated on the fact that he has failed – failed to heal the only person he knew he could understand, and at this point, he knew could understand him. He had failed.
"Is it time -- " he mused loudly "– to give up?"
Hermione was sinking deeper into a blanket that enclosed her, embracing her, protecting her from the horrible throbbing pain that was draining away with her ability to feel. She could see Snape looking at her, staring blankly, saw his eyes mist over and even felt the flutter-kiss of a tear falling on her hand. She remembered him clutching her hand.
Her vision was slowly disappearing like she was.
There was an enclosing darkness like going underwater, it was almost like drowning, drowning within yourself, drowning in memories you conjured up.
She saw herself kissing Harry for the first time, on his broomstick, right after his 7th year victory of winning the house cup.
She saw Harry smiling, his green eyes were shining.
She saw Harry and Ron walking away from her, saw Harry turn back and wave.
She saw Harry ...
She almost saw a thought flutter by. Suddenly, the almost ultimate black above her glowed and became golden, majestic, like the rising of the sun.
She was stuck somewhere in the darkness, not calling out, almost lifeless.
She smiled, entrapped within herself.
She was, she believed, about to see Harry again. And this time, she'd feel him too.
Somewhere above her, she faintly heard a loud, jubilant cry, but she didn't care as she was lost.
TBC...
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