Darkness.

It was very dark, completely black. There was no light, no sight, no sound, nothing. But the nothing was something, and he held onto it, because even if it was nothing, he was aware of it. He'd no feeling, nothing but a detached awareness that he existed, though where he existed he couldn't have said. This might have been death for all he knew, though he hoped it wasn't. He'd always hoped that death would be peaceful, that there would be no more thoughts and no more concerns and no awareness—hat he would simply cease to be. He hadn't ceased to be yet, though, and he could only hope that meant he wasn't dead.

The awareness waxed and waned, and he floated somewhere just below consciousness. He knew he was being moved, lifted, his body manipulated one way and another, though there was no rhyme or reason to the movements. There was no sense of time nor of space nor of direction here, but he was beginning to feel again. He could feel something hard, uncomfortable, under him, then weightlessness, then softness. It was as though his senses had been reduced to those of an infant—he could not identify the changes, except in terms of what he liked and did not like. There was a tugging, and he could have done without that, but then there was a caress, and he wished it could have lingered forever. And then there was a pressure, and a noise… A piercing, horrible noise that made him want to recoil, but he hadn't the ability to so much as blink, let alone cringe away from the horrible noise. It was soon gone, though, and then there was only darkness and silence once more.

Thought.

Something was supposed to be happening. He couldn't remember what it was, but it was supposed to happen, and he'd planned it carefully, so there was a good reason to believe it would happen. Eventually. Now? He thought about that, but there were no conclusions to be reached, and it hardly seemed to matter anyway. What was now, but an abstract concept? When it happened—whatever it was and regardless of when it was supposed to happen—it would be now, because now was all that existed. There were other words for time, of course, and his mind was slowly beginning to discover those words again, but they were odd ideas, this business of past and future. Now was all that really meant anything to him.

Something had happened in the past—distant or near he could not distinguish, it was as though his memory was two-dimensional just now, and that was an odd thought. He accepted it, though, because it was there, this two-dimensional memory that was odd even though he couldn't remember what it was supposed to be like. He couldn't remember much of anything, but there was a thought in his head, one thought, that kept circling, like the moon on its path around the earth. Something was going to happen, it would happen, it was happening. It had already happened? Well, he would worry about it when it came to be, and until then, not think about it. But he thought about the fact that he was thinking, because that meant something too. He couldn't remember what, but it would come to him, and he was in no particular hurry.

Pain.

The first memory, if it could be called a memory, was that the searing heat that coursed through his veins like liquid lightning was painful. He wanted to cry out, to double up, to whimper, to moan… to do anything, something… He wanted to react because there was pain ripping through his body, threatening to rip his body apart, and he could do nothing about it. He could not stop it, and no one else could stop it. No one else was there. The pain forced all thought and consciousness from his mind, and finally, admitting defeat, he sank back into the ether from which he had been steadily emerging.

Sinking away from the pain, yes, but also from thought. And from awareness. Even from the darkness, because there could be no darkness without awareness (was that a thought? Maybe he hadn't sunk so far away as he'd thought.)

Again, he was floating, enshrouded by darkness and awareness, vaguely aware of the thoughts that kept him lingering where he was. The pain was a barrier to him, and one which he thought he was supposed to break through, but wasn't sure he wanted to. He thought he was supposed to reach past it, that there was supposed to be something beyond it that would make the journey past it worth bearing, but he couldn't remember what it was. He knew he was supposed to try, to force his way through it, that it was like him to ignore such trifles as pain, but he couldn't remember why. And not knowing why, he didn't see the point. After all, even if there was nothing except darkness and awareness and thought where he was, he couldn't remember what lay beyond the pain, and he knew that the pain was uncomfortable. Far less comfortable than where he was. Would it really be so bad if he simply stayed here?

Memory.

Yes. It would be very bad indeed if he stayed where he was. There was something beyond that wall of pain, and even if he couldn't remember what it was, he remembered that it was there, and suddenly he could not be content with where he was anymore. Maybe it was increased awareness. He wondered how long he had been like this. He wondered how long he could remain like this. He wondered why it mattered, and what it meant that he knew it mattered and why it mattered that he knew what it meant, and it was this circular, spherical, spiraling curvature of thought that buoyed him upward, and into the barrier of pain again.

Exploding, blinding pain. Blinding—was there something beyond blinding? There was nothing here, though, not even awareness, except awareness of the pain. And memory, more intense now than before (before what?) that there was something besides the pain. He could sink back away from it, and he knew that he could find that safe, dark, vague place again. He remembered where it was. He could not remember what was beyond the pain, though, or if there was, indeed, anything beyond it. Except that he was supposed to reach beyond it. Searing, numbing, gripping pain.

His eyes came open, almost of their own accord. I should have added something to that Enervating Potion for the pain, he thought, his fingers suddenly curling around whatever it was he was laying on top of. His breathing was ragged, and it was only because he was forcing himself to do so that he breathed at all. Breathing was important; he seemed to remember that from somewhere. A strangled moan slipped from his lips, but he hadn't the energy to do more than that. And the darkness. It was too dark. When he opened his eyes, it was supposed to be light again.

He'd done something wrong. Closing his eyes, he fell back below the surface of consciousness again, but this time he took memory with him. He just needed to mull over things for a few minutes (or eons) more before he tried that waking thing again.

He drifted in the desensitizing arms of unconsciousness once more, riding waves of nothing, carried by currents of nothing, and thinking about what had happened. He needed to do something. He needed to... he needed to drink a potion for the pain. Was there such a thing? Yes. Yes, there was. It was in his pocket. There were a number of things in his pocket, actually, now that he thought about it—including something very important but he couldn't remember what. Probably something for the pain. And he was going to… He was going to incite that pain again so that he could drink a potion for the pain (lucky he hadn't brought logic along with him when he sank back into unconsciousness, as logic would likely not be particularly pleased with the idea of enduring pain just so he could take a potion for it.)

And then he needed to find out what had happened to Weasley. Wait. There was more than one Weasley, wasn't there? He considered that for a minute, wondering what a Weasley was, and came to the conclusion that it was something important he had to see to, and he couldn't do that unless he drank the pain potion but first he had to face the pain again. He wasn't ready to face the pain again yet, though, so he thought about something else. This business of thinking and remembering was really quite seductive, actually.

Those dunderheads had better appreciate this, he thought distantly, and immediately wondered which dunderheads were supposed to appreciate something and why they needed to appreciate it. Of course. The pain was there because he had… he had… well, he didn't seem to be able to find that memory just yet, and rather than worry about it, he thought grimly that if those idiots hadn't survived, he was going to kill him. Again, worth noting that he'd not brought logic down here with him.

Armed with this knowledge that he needed to venture back into that quagmire of pain once more and break the surface so he could find the pain potion and tend to the business of killing the dunderheads if they hadn't survived, Severus began his ascent back towards consciousness. The pain was like a brick wall, and memory and thought threatened to desert him, but he knew he would need their help if he was to survive that wall of pain, so he clung to them. Clung to memories that were growing ever more clear and precise, to thoughts that were more focused and coherent, and to anything he could find that would distract him, even for a fraction of a second, from the white-hot pain that seemed to have replaced his blood.

His fingers clutched at the bed again, but this time, memory took over, thankfully, and reminded him that muscles were there to be used, and they were not best used by squeezing the blanket into a wad of wool. It took a great deal more coordination than he remembered, but he finally managed to roll over, and immediately regretted it as his hip came into contact with something hard. Grimacing, he shifted his weight, and ended face down on the mattress, his nose pressed into the pillow. And that was uncomfortable. The pain was bad enough without him having to be uncomfortable to boot.

Forcing his arms to move, he braced his hands against the mattress and hauled himself up, almost into a seated position, but not quite, and then shifted his weight to one hand and groped in his pocket for the potion he knew he had. His fingers closed around a small bottle, and he brought it, hand trembling to his lips. There was a cork in it, though, and that was going to prevent him from drinking it. Frustrated that the universe was conspiring against him (and logic still not having returned to his repertoire of mental facilities) Severus collapsed onto the mattress again, his fingers still curled around the bottle of potion.

"You are not going to pass out again," he muttered to himself. "Not yet. Master yourself."

Master yourself. Yes. He'd told Harry Potter that. The boy who lived. The boy who had better still be alive or was going to die at Severus' hands, no matter what that old coot had to say about it.

Lifting his head again with some difficulty, Severus brought the potion to his lips and caught the cork between his teeth, ripping it from the bottle. He tilted the liquid into his mouth, and after a moment, remembered that he was supposed to swallow it, and then finally let his head fall to the pillow again. Killing Potter could wait until the potion had a chance to work, and Severus sank gratefully back into unconsciousness, thought and memory both abandoning him this time.

When he broke the surface of awareness again, the journey was easier, and he found that his muscles were more cooperative. No idea how long he'd been unconscious, but logic (which had finally returned) told him that it couldn't have been long, as he could still taste the honeyed sweetness of the potion he'd drunk. He pushed himself up slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress and waiting patiently for the world to stop spinning around him. It did, finally, and he stood, cringing slightly at the cold of the floorboards beneath his feet. Shouldn't I be wearing shoes?

He took three lurching steps forward, and then caught himself, leaning against the wall for support until he regained his equilibrium, and then pushed the door open. He took a few stumbling steps into the hall, catching himself on the wall again just before he acquainted his nose with the floor, and then took a few more steps. It was a slow process, this business of walking, when every three steps or so he had to stop to steady himself. By the time he reached the stairs, though, he was taking ten steps at a time before he had to catch himself, and there was a banister, and hopefully that would be enough to get him downstairs. All the way downstairs.

He stumbled and picked his way down, nearly falling twice, but managing both times to regain his footing just before toppling down the stairs. When he finally reached the first floor, he leaned against the wall, breathing heavily from the exertion, and thinking that coming downstairs might not have been the best idea. And why had he come downstairs to begin with?

A door opened, and he turned his eyes to it, and there was one of the reasons he'd come downstairs. One of the dunderheads. She was carrying a tray of tea things, and emerging into the hall, but she suddenly stopped in the doorway, staring, her mouth open. The tray tumbled out of her hands, and though Severus saw it slipping, there was nothing in the world he could have done to prevent it from falling, so he didn't even try. It hit the floor with a crash, and a bloodcurdling scream ripped from the dunderhead's throat.

Severus winced. "Miss Granger," he said in an icy tone, "kindly stop that loathsome noi—oof."

He blinked, looking down, suddenly finding himself in possession of one hysterical Hermione Granger who had somehow attached herself to him, pinning him against the wall. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, and he hesitated, not really sure what to do with her now that he had her, but finally deciding that there was nothing wrong with touching her hair. Which was considerably softer than he'd ever thought it would be.

There was a chorus of scraping and thudding sounds from down the hall, and thudding sounds from the door through which Hermione had emerged, and then a gasp.

"But… but you're dead…" came an all-too-familiar voice from across the hall.

Severus closed his eyes, trying to clear his vision which had taken the opportunity to blur slightly, and shook his head. "Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Potter, but I am quite alive. And if Miss Granger will allow me to breathe, I might remain alive for another few minutes."

"Severus!"

That exclamation came from no fewer than a dozen people, and Severus looked towards the growing crowd in the hallway. A crowd that seemed, as a whole, almost afraid to move forward. Harry and Ginny were standing in the doorway across the hall from him, also not moving. Hermione, it seemed, wasn't inclined to move either, as she was still clinging to him, and had not loosened her death grip by a fraction.

Right. Plan of action. First remove self from Hermione's grip, then inquire as to health of three more Weasleys, then find most expedient way to find bed.

He lifted a hand, moving Hermione's hair away from her face and his lips—he'd been getting a mouthful of her bushy mane for the last several seconds—and then leaned his head to whisper directly into her ear. "Miss Granger? If it is convenient for you, will you please detach yourself from me?"

She was shaking suddenly, and Severus rolled his eyes. Merlin's beard, the last thing he needed was a crying girl in his arms just now. He barely had the strength to support himself, let alone someone else, even with the wall at his back. He cast an imploring look at Remus, who was staring, agape, just like everyone else.

Finally, Remus jolted forward, and took Hermione by the shoulders, pulling her gently away. With enough space between them for Severus to take a deep breath without inhaling any part of her body, he could see that she wasn't sobbing, as he'd thought. There were tears on her cheeks, but the shaking appeared to be coming from laughter rather than weeping. He was never going to understand women.

Forcing himself away from the wall, Severus turned to face the crowd at the end of the hall, not really sure what to say. Dumbledore saved him the trouble, though, suddenly rushing forward, and once again, Severus found himself in an embrace, but this one requiring much less energy on his own part. He leaned against the older wizard, who was holding him tightly.

"My boy," Dumbledore whispered, holding him. "We all thought we had lost you."