THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER
By: Scatterheart
"No matter what road you travel on, you seem to go through the darkest places." (PM Dawn)Section Nineteen
Hermione Granger drifted back to consciousness amidst the fresh, bitter scent of herbs and cleaning solutions. She sensed that she was in Madame Pomfrey's hospital ward; it was a place she was unfortunately too familiar with. Had she been Petrified, she wondered in that jumbled moment on the verge of leaving sleep. Did they finally manage to unfreeze her from…
No – her mind was clearer now, her memories sorted – and that event had been one from years and years past. She settled herself into the present and realized that she was here for a different reason.
Two male voices were buzzing like bees above her head.
Hermione blearily opened her eyes and saw two blurry shapes that she identified as Ron and Harry hovering in her peripheral vision. She was lying in a narrow hospital bed underneath starched white sheets, and the boys were quietly talking over her from their chairs on the opposite sides of her pillow.
"But I don't understand why she would faint?" That was Ron. "All I said to her was—"
"I still think we should let Dumbledore know about this." Harry. "She says its schoolwork, but, Ron, do you honestly believe that anymore? She's covering up something."
"Blimey, Harry, do you have to put it that way? You sound like she's planning to kill you."
"Christ, it doesn't matter how I say it. I'm trying to help her, and she's going to kill herself if she keeps this up."
Ron made a sound in his throat. "Then what do you say we do?"
"Talk to Dumbledore. Tell him to talk to that bugger Snape." Harry let out a breath between thinned lips and absently scratched his scar. "Snape. It's always Snape. Why is Snape always a part of this? Ron. Do you think—"
An urge to cough suddenly seized Hermione, and she did, loudly. Harry broke off mid-sentence, and two pairs of eyes were instantly focused on her.
"'Mione! You're finally awake!" Ron said, grinning.
"How…" Her voice came out as a decidedly pathetic croak. "How long have I been here?"
"Three or four hours, at least," he replied. "What the bloody hell happened out there, 'Mione?"
It all came back to her like a vivid color movie. The trips to the empty dungeons, the whispers from the students in the halls, the words that accompanied her as she passed out: "Professor Snape got hit with the Cruciatus Curse. No one knows who did it. They say he's dying."
Merlin, it all came back. And she felt like she was going to faint, again.
She forced herself to stay awake. "Was that you who was talking to me, Ron?" she demanded. "You know, right before I…"
"Yes, I was just going to look for you in the library—"
"You said Snape got hit with Cruciatus? Are you sure?"
Ron gaped at her as Harry sat back in his chair, sighing. "Aren't you worried about yourself?" Ron shrilled.
Hermione rattled off the first excuse that came to her tongue; years of experience had made the task effortless. "It's probably dehydration. I never drink enough water."
"Do you want me to get a glass for you?" Harry offered without moving.
"No thanks, I'm fine now," she said. "In fact, I feel perfect. I think I should leave. Where did Pomfrey say Snape is?" She made a motion to sit, only to be blocked by Ron's arms.
"Never mind that Slytherin git. You're going to rest, Hermione," he said, attempting to ease her down.
She wriggled free from his hands and shoved him aside, more roughly than she had intended to. She was inexplicably annoyed with him, and the confused and offended expression on his face only incensed her even more. Grunting, she ducked under the barrier of the two boys, flung away the blanket, and struggled to her feet. She rocked woozily; swiftly and firmly found her footing.
They say he's dying, she thought. Severus Snape is dying.
Harry and Ron had both gotten to their feet and were observing her as though warily watching a caged alien from behind a glass windowpane.
Something snapped. Hermione exploded. "What's the matter with you guys? Do you guys care that one of your professors is dying? Yeah, okay, so he's a Slytherin – who cares? Who bloody cares what color his flag is! We're not ten years old anymore, okay? I'm not going to stand around and cheer that Snape just got attacked because he's head of Slytherin and I'm part of Gryffindor! The whole house rivalry thing is a game, okay? An interesting game to keep the first and second years on their toes. And Cruciatus isn't. And, and – oh, just grow up." She flung her fingers into her rebellious mane.
There was very prolonged silence, in which the sounds of an outdoors Quidditch match could be heard distantly through the walls. Then Harry spoke. "I'm going to find Madame Pomfrey."
Ron continued without missing a beat, "Harry, she's at the staff meeting. I'll go with you—"
"No, you're coming with me," Hermione said, taking his bony wrist in an unrelenting grasp. "We're going to look for Snape and see what's happened to him."
"You don't honestly believe he's dying, Hermione!" Ron shouted, his gaze flitting despondently to Harry as the dark-haired boy excused himself from the ward. He miserably withered as Harry departed from sight. "It was probably some prank. And besides Snape is under the care of the hospital ward, and everything's going to be hunky dory in a day or two," he grumbled.
"Then why is everybody so hush-hush about it, if it's so 'hunky dory'?" she returned, letting go of his wrist and crossing her arms. "It's obvious that the professors were trying to hide the news from everyone, and it accidentally slipped out against their will. Would they do that if all Snape had was a case of the cramps? No! And…" She swallowed. "You know it isn't a prank. No one would use Crutiatus for a prank."
"Fine," he said, moodily. "But, 'Mione – Snape! I don't see why—" He shook himself as though he were waging an inner struggle. "Look. Hermione. Madame Pomfrey has everything under control. When has she not? The reason why the teachers didn't tell everyone is probably because they didn't want the school to panic. And, anyway, what's Snape to you—"
That was when Hermione spied the door in the far corner of the ward. The corner was so dark and suffused with shadows that the rickety wooden board seemed to blend straight into the wall, but it was opened a crack, and a sliver of reddish light flickered out from the thin border.
Hermione held up a hand. "Ron. Over there."
"Geez, 'Mione, you think he's in…"
She was already running towards it, brushing aside curtains and veering around empty hospital beds. Her heart, she realized, was pounding and squeezing and wrenching violently. Thousands of questions flooded her head; how was he? What would he look like? Was he really… dying?
Four hours ago she had been so mad at him, she thought through the haze. Mad at what she had believed was his damn selfish pride and vile attitude. Oh, Merlin, if she had known he was here…
She reached the door and flung it open before hesitation had any chance to take over.
"Oh my God," she whispered.
The room was small, dimly lit by a single candle, and so sweltering hot the air rippled. Hermione was reminded of the inside of a suffocating steam bath, and she gagged and gasped for breath. She wiped the steamy fog from her eyes and blinked.
She saw now at the end of the room a tiny bed heaped with dark-hued velvet blankets. In the bed was lump the size of a man. Over the folds of the blanket she could only see the top of the man's head, the strands of lank black hair splayed across the white pillowcase, but there was only one man in all of England with hair like that.
Severus Snape.
"Professor?" she stammered.
There was no answer from the shape on the bed.
Hermione forgot about the unbearable heat in the room and rushed to him. She fell into a kneeling position at the bedside, shook him. "Professor Snape. Oh, God, Severus, please."
"I think he's unconscious, 'Mione," came Ron's hesitant answer.
She whirled around. The boy had slipped inside, and was standing and fidgeting a full three meters away from her as if he was too afraid to come any closer. "He's unconscious," Ron resumed quietly, "but he's alive. He's shivering; look."
Yes, Snape was shivering. The tremors ran in waves throughout his thin frame, and Hermione yearned to put her arms about him and embrace him with all of the energy she had left in her body. The Potions Master was not supposed to be shivering. He was supposed to be strong and snide and sarcastic and calm, and he was even supposed to be a complete bastard to her, but for Merlin's sake, he was not supposed to be unconscious!
It took every fiber of self-control to stop the tears that burned at her eyes from falling, from throwing her body onto him. Ron, she reminded herself. Ron.
"We have to get some of these blankets off of him. It's too hot in here," she said in a passably collected tone. She lifted an edge of the first blanket and attempted to drag it off; it was shockingly heavy and she only succeeded in nudging it. "Come on, Ron. Help me."
"Hermione…"
"Help me!" she said, feeling dangerously close to losing control. "It's so bloody hot in here and there aren't any windows. Why – why would they do this to him? I can hardly breathe as it is. They're going to kill him! We have to—"
"—Hermione, listen—"
"He's running a fever!"
"Will you listen!"
She had never in her life heard Ron Weasley use that kind of voice. It was… raw – a complete revolution from the candy-tinted jokes and quips she had been so used to hearing from him. She clamped her mouth shut. "Okay," she said.
Ron's chest was heaving. "They're trying to sweat the sickness out of him, okay? It's a far Eastern practice. When – when conventional wizard and Muggle medicines can't cure a disease – especially a fever – you can sometimes cure it by being in an extremely high temperature. The heat denatures the protein in the virus or something. Geez, 'Mione, Madame Pomfrey's not putting him in the private ward to kill him."
"Who told you about the protein thing?"
"Neville."
"What? Neville? I never told him that!"
"He does his Potions homework by himself," Ron retorted.
Oh. Under normal circumstances she would have pursued the matter further, but now Hermione let it pass fleetingly through her mind. She turned back to Severus. Despite all of their shouts he was still unconscious, shaking. She held out a hand, wiped away a few waves of soft hair from his temple, and pressed her palm to his damp forehead.
His skin was so fevered she almost removed her hand. "Ron, he's burning up," she whispered through a choke. "Neville doesn't know what he's saying, that brainless son of a bitch…"
There came the sound of a small moan. Snape. He stirred.
"Professor?" Her heart leaped.
The Potions Master muttered something incomprehensible, shifted under the weight of the blankets, and rolled over.
And Hermione saw his face clearly for the first time. It was ashen gray and covered in a sheen of glistening perspiration. His eyes were screwed shut, his brows knitted. His lips were twisted in a grimace; she hoped it was an expression from a nightmare, and not from actual, physical pain.
Cruciatus…
How can one even begin to describe the pure agony?
"Severus?" Hermione managed again in a dry sob. She knew that Ron was behind her, but it was impossible to pretend to care any longer. "Severus, can you hear me?" She stroked his burning, burning cheek. Please remember…
He moaned again, hoarsely, but did not awaken. Instead his arm reached out from underneath the covers (he was wearing the simple white shirt she had seen that night when she had been in his chambers) and wrapped itself around her.
There was one thing Hermione Granger could think of to do. She fell into Severus' desperate, heated embrace.
For about two seconds.
Ron was immediately at her side, prying the Potions Master's hands off of her. "He can't—"
"Stop it, Ron!" she found herself screaming, jostling the boy away in fury. "Stop! He's delirious; he doesn't know what he's doing!"
"I know what he's doing!" Ron said, regaining his balance and scrambling to her. "He's trying to—"
She shoved him and sent him sprawling to the carpeted floor with a strength she didn't even know she possessed. "He's ill, Ron! He needs comfort!"
"No." Ron was fumbling in his inner jacket pocket. "No, I can't let this happen." He whipped out something long and thin. It was his wand.
To Hermione, events now unfolded as though they were scenes from a horrible television show, as though they were performed by actors who only resembled the people they once were. She could no longer recognize the soul that was hers, the soul that chose to bestow its affections so blatantly, so blindly.
Merlin, how she wished she could run to Ron. Right now, the two of them could leave the sweltering torture of this place and flee to the circle of friendship and oblivion that was the Gryffindor Common Room. Flee and forget, like children.
Memories flashed in her mind: the three of them, Harry, Ron and herself, in wide eyed awe as they passed through the gates of Hogwarts. Snickering with fellow Gryffindors as the evil professor with the greasy hair and hooked nose stalked by like a scoundrel out of a comic book. The pure exhilaration of watching a Quidditch match…
It was over.
"No," Hermione was screaming, holding onto Severus with both arms. "He's already gotten hexed once; he can't handle another—"
Too late. "Corpus morendus!" Ron declared, pointing his wand unerringly at Snape.
And Snape collasped limply like a puppet that had been cut of its strings.
Hermione clamped a hand over her mouth to prevent herself from screaming. He was dead. Ron had killed him. He was…
"'Mione," Ron panted, tucking his wand into his jacket, "he's only going to be out for a little while. It might actually even help him stop shivering…" He eyed her suspiciously. "Don't you know this charm, Hermione? You look like I—"
"You killed him!"
"What!" Ron jerked as though he had been shot. "Why the bloody hell would I do that, Hermione!"
"Look, you—"
Snape was breathing in deep, controlled breaths. Alive. But how…
Corpus morendus, of course. Now the information about that spell was coming to Hermione Granger, about three sentences too late. Ron was right; it was harmless and only meant to relax, recover…
Hermione fell against the side of the bed, ashamed. "Ron," she muttered. "I… I don't know. I don't know. I'm sorry."
"You thought I killed him. You're serious. You really, really, honestly thought that I killed him."
"I was—"
"You really, really thought I killed him, Hermione," he resumed, dully. "And all I was trying to do was to make that bastard a little more comfortable and keep him from molesting you. But you…"
"I was wrong."
"You…" A war was raging in his light blue eyes, a war of confusion and hurt and anger that was gradually clouding and hardening together… And Ron pinned Hermione with a glare that offered no compromises. "I don't know you anymore, Hermione," he said. He pivoted on his heels, and walked resolutely out of the room.
Hermione Granger was too exhausted to weep.
--
To be continued.
Note: "Corpus morendus" is something I made up myself. Corpus = body and morendus = death. Actually, I lied; I have no idea on the last one. I know "morir" means "to die" in Spanish, so I twisted that around. Heh heh.