"Potter, cease what you are doing this instant!"
Snape's voice was tinged with frustration and the beginnings of panic. He could plainly see that Harry was doing himself more damage with each passing moment, and for what must surely be a lost cause- Muggles, raise the dead- honestly! He wanted to put a stop to it, but he dared not let go of Draco, who was still wild with grief. He feared that without his strong arms to immobilize him, his former star Slytherin would do something…well, drastic. Though he couldn't bring himself to put his fear into words, even mentally, he could see clearly that Draco. Wanted. Death. So he held on with an iron grip, and was powerless to put an end to what was, in his opinion, Harry's self-destructive foolishness.
As for Harry, he ignored his professor completely, no longer having the energy to reply. His head was spinning- the world tilting dangerously around him, and large black starbursts were now blooming before his eyes, but he would not- COULD not- stop.
Forever…he would do this forever…if he had to….
Thirteen…fourteen…fifteen…BREATHE!
And then-
Oh, and then.
Harry had just given her one breath and was pausing, gathering himself with difficulty for the second, when her entire body jerked violently beneath him, her head coming up off the stone landing and then slamming back down onto it, her eyes simultaneously flying wide open. Instantly she focused on him and held his gaze as she dragged in a great, shuddering breath- then she struggled up onto her elbows.
"Harry," she said hoarsely, "Ron sent me back."
But before Harry, who was staring at her in utter blank astonishment, had a chance to gather his wits sufficiently to think of a reply, her face contorted with agony. Her hands flew to wrap around her midsection and she fell back to the ground, literally writhing with pain. She managed to turn onto her side, and pulled herself into a tight little ball, struggling to breathe.
"Hermione!" Harry cried raggedly.
"Harry," she managed to choke out as he bent close over her, straining to hear and understand; "p-poison. Help. Please!"
"Professor!" Harry screamed as horrified comprehension dawned. "The antidote- oh God, Professor PLEASE!"
Snape was beside them in an instant. Years of working in dangerous undercover situations had taught his body to react quickly when called upon, even if his mind was- as it now most assuredly was- reeling. He still could not grasp the concept that she was actually alive, yet he was fumbling in his robes, pulling out the vial of antidote with shaking hands, yanking out and casting aside the tiny jeweled stopper, grabbing the suffering girl's head and pulling it around to face him just as roughly as Lucius had done when forcing her to drink the poison in the first place (time was of the essence after all, and she was thrashing wildly), holding the vial to her lips and pouring the precious liquid down her throat. He then gathered her into his arms, smoothing Draco's shirt back down, covering her body, holding her tightly as her poison-induced shudders slowly began to subside.
"Potter," he gasped over his shoulder, "-Draco!"
Harry, understanding perfectly the two-word command, turned toward Draco. What he saw caused his eyes to widen, aghast. The moment Snape had let him go, Draco had crawled the few feet to where his wand lay, seized it, and was now, as Harry looked on horror-struck, raising it slowly to his temple.
With a feeling of sick dread in the pit of his stomach, Harry realized that Draco, too overcome with grief to even realize what was going on with Hermione, must be preparing to Avada Kedavra himself.
"NO!" he shouted wildly, and threw himself toward Draco, at the same time pulling out his own wand. "Accio!" he cried, as it became apparent that he wouldn't reach the blond boy in time. Draco, who had his head bowed forward and eyes squeezed shut against what he was about to do, was caught completely off-guard as his wand went flying out of his hand and into Harry's. He jerked his head up and his pale eyes, lighting on Harry now clutching his wand, narrowed to slits, blazing with rage and despair.
"Potter," he snarled, and launched himself at Harry. He was weak and slow, but Harry, hurt and exhausted as he was, was weaker and slower still, and so failed to get out of the way in time. Draco crashed into him, knocking him backward- over the edge of the steps. The two boys tumbled, locked together, rolling over and over each other, all the way down.
Harry, with three ribs already broken, had the extreme misfortune to land hard on his back, cracking his head against the bottom step, with Draco thudding heavily on top of him. He felt, quite distinctly- though distantly- everything seemed strangely distant all of a sudden- the sickening crunch that meant yet more ribs had cracked, one of them (though of course Harry did not realize it at the time) punching straight through into his lung.
As Draco heaved himself up and off him, Harry attempted to sit up- but all he managed to do was to raise his head a couple of inches, and even then he could only hold it up for a second or two before it fell heavily back onto the step.
"Ow," he said weakly.
Draco was still furious. Now kneeling beside Harry, he seized the front of the injured boy's robes, thrust his face very close to Harry's and spat out, "you had no fucking right, Potter!"
Harry blinked hard, trying to focus on the Draco-blur of silver hair and snarling mouth that was swimming sickly before his eyes. He managed to drag in a shallow breath- a task which he suddenly found to be nearly impossible- and whispered, "couldn't…let you do it, Malfoy. Hermione would…kill me."
This had the effect of enraging Draco still further. "Are you trying to be funny, Potter? Is that your idea of a fucking JOKE? Hermione is dead!" And he gave Harry a vicious shake.
Shaking a person whose jaggedly broken ribs are currently causing massive internal damage is not a good thing. Harry had opened his mouth to reply, but now all that came out was a great spout of bright red blood. It drenched the front of his robes, and Draco's bare chest, and caused Draco to let go of him, suddenly horror-stricken.
"Aw, fuck, Potter, FUCK!"
Harry's clouded green eyes registered only a distant, mild surprise. "Malfoy," he croaked, "I don't feel so good."
"Potter…shit." Draco's head was spinning. He pressed the heels of both hands to his temples, trying desperately to calm himself and think of what to do next. It was useless. Rational thought was beyond him; he was adrift in a sea of grief over Hermione and a new and piercing remorse for what he had done to Harry. He might have stayed that way for hours, eyes closed, rocking slightly, had Harry himself not snapped him out of it, reaching up- a monumental effort- and grabbing his wrist to get his attention.
"Malfoy," Harry whispered, when Draco's slate colored eyes snapped back open to meet his, "you have to get Ron. I was…gonna do it, but- I don't think I can now. You gotta apparate back to the manor- but make sure you take the portkey with you…so you can get Ron home." he paused as more blood bubbled up out of his mouth and flowed, a crimson river, down over his chin- "bring him home. Please. I promised him. Can't leave him there…can't…Draco. Swear."
Draco felt his rage dissolving. All he felt now was empty and lost. Lost without Hermione. Lost without a reason to go on. At least retrieving Ron's body was a task he could set his mind to. And Harry was right; they couldn't just leave Ron there.
"It's all right, Potter, I'll go," he said. "I'll go now. Harry. I swear."
Harry's hand fell away from his wrist, and the green eyes fluttered closed.
"Christ, Potter, I'm sorry mate," Draco muttered, fully aware that Harry, now deeply unconscious, could no longer hear him. He would not have apologized otherwise.
00000
After retrieving his wand from where it lay on the ground near Harry's prone form, Draco trudged slowly back up the steps, three simple thoughts cycling over and over in his mind. Get Snape to help Harry. Find the portkey. Go get Ron. Get Snape to help Harry. Find the portkey. Go get Ron.
After completing these tasks, he could find a secluded place- go deep into the forbidden forest, perhaps- and finish what he had started before Potter had interfered. As he climbed the steps, his shoulders were slumped, his head bowed forward, his feet dragging. He looked weary, and defeated- something he had NEVER looked before- and twenty years older than he was. He looked much the same way as he felt; like an empty shell of a human being; like a walking corpse.
Reaching the landing, he raised dull eyes to search first for Snape and then for the portkey which would carry him back to the manor. He found Snape first, but what he saw then wiped all thoughts of the portkey from his mind; caused his eyes to widen and his jaw to drop, and all the air to leave his lungs in a sudden forced rush, as though he had just been hit in the stomach by an invisible bludger. Because Snape was kneeling next to Hermione- and Hermione was- SITTING UP.
Draco stood stock still, staring, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Was Snape somehow holding her in that position? No. The Potions Master was rubbing her back gently in calming circles, but appeared to lending her no support whatsoever. She was sitting up on her own- legs drawn up to her chest, her arms clasped around them, head resting on her knees, her face obscured by her tumultuous hair. And her whole body looked to be shaking violently, as though- as though she was crying.
But that was impossible. Utterly impossible.
He dragged in a deep, hitching breath.
Sensing his presence, she raised her head. Her eyes, huge and dark in her pale face, still streaming silent tears, latched onto his.
"Oh my God," he said, his voice halfway between a groan and a whisper.
He took a single, faltering step toward her, and his legs went out from under him. He fell heavily to his knees on the cold, hard stone of the landing, barely registering the pain this caused. His eyes were still locked on Hermione's.
Impossible.
He had watched her die.
He had died with her.
"Oh my God," he said again.
And she started toward him.
He felt himself listing to the side and flung out an arm to steady himself as he watched her crawling- impossibly- towards him. Other then that, he found himself unable to move, either toward her or away, and he wasn't sure at the moment which direction he would move in if he had that choice. He wasn't sure if what he should be feeling right now was wonder- or horror. Because she was dead. She was dead. She had to be dead.
In the end, it didn't truly matter which of those emotions he ought to have felt, because he felt neither; his mind was still too busy trying- and failing- to grasp the reality of what he was seeing. And then she had reached him, stopped only inches away from him.
"Draco," she whispered, and raised a hand toward his face, the engagement ring glittering on her finger- and his decision was made then, unconsciously; he flinched back and away.
"No," he said in a choked voice, as hurt blossomed in her eyes- those gorgeous warm honey-brown eyes, those eyes he had watched the light fade out of, those eyes he had closed with shaking fingers; "no. You're not real. You're just a trick- a cruel trick." His voice broke as he cried out, "stop torturing me!"
She dropped her hand back to her side, and dropped her eyes from his. "Draco," she said again, head bowed forward, hair falling, disheveled, across her face, and his name came out as a sob. Her voice sounded as lost as he felt. He realized that, close as she was, he could feel the heat radiating off her body; could smell her, even- blood and sweat and salty tears, but under it all there was still her familiar, sweet smell; the Hermione-smell he had thought was forever lost; she smelled of strawberry shampoo and old dusty books and chocolate and ink and peppermint humbugs.
But how could this be? HOW could this BE?
"I came back for you," she whispered, "because you were screaming."
Distantly he realized that in fact, this was absolutely true; he had indeed been screaming. And he also realized that there was no possible way she should know that. Then again, there was no possible way she should be here telling him that she knew this impossible thing because she was dead, damnit, and the dead don't come back no matter how one screams for them- do they? DO they?
She was speaking again.
"I couldn't leave you like that," she whispered, still looking down, her face still hidden behind her thick curtain of hair; "not screaming. Not like that. I love you too much- I- I-" her voice dissolved into sobs. Wrapping her arms tightly around herself, she cried as if her heart would break.
And Draco reached out.
It was when he heard her say she loved him that his conscious decision was made. To hear that voice he had thought never to hear again, speaking those three most precious words- I'll take her, he thought; I don't care anymore what she is. If she's an illusion I hope she never fades. If she's a dream, I don't want to wake up. If she's a demon sent from Hell to torment me, she's still better than the alternative; better than the wasteland my life would be without her in it. And if she's real- oh God, if she's REAL-
He reached out a trembling hand, cupped her chin and tilted her face up toward his. "Hermione," he breathed, as their eyes met once again, and a jolt like electricity passed through his body at the feel of her skin, warm under his fingers and the sight of her eyes; the light, the life, the love in her eyes. His other hand came up then too, seemingly of its own accord, and suddenly he was touching her everywhere; running his hands over her face, through her hair, down her arms encased in the baggy, overlong sleeves of his shirt, grasping both her hands. "You're real," he whispered in an awed voice, unaware that tears were now flowing freely down his face; "you're bloody real!" And he pulled her suddenly, almost violently to him, his arms wrapping about her fiercely, clinging to her with the desperation of a drowning man seizing hold of his last chance at salvation.
"I love you, Hermione," he gasped, "I love you I love you I love you and oh GOD, don't ever leave me again!"
Then he buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her, and they cried together.
00000
Snape climbed slowly to his feet, eyes on the young couple locked in a desperate embrace. He was completely and utterly shell-shocked. Hermione Granger had been dead and Potter had brought her back. Impossible as it seemed, he had watched it happen- and anyway, the proof was right before his eyes; the girl, very much alive, clasped in her lover's arms, neither one of them looking as if they ever planned to let go.
Potter had done this, but how- how? He had to know. And speaking of Potter- Snape glanced around- where was he? He wasn't anywhere in sight, and yet he couldn't have gone far, not in his condition. Snape ran a hand quickly through his black hair; an anxious gesture. Something was wrong here- very wrong. Where could Harry have gone? WHY would Harry have gone anywhere? All he had asked him to do was- shit. Oh shit. All he had asked him to do was look after Draco. Who had been, at the time, completely deranged. And who had just come climbing up the steps (which Snape couldn't recall him ever descending, come to think of it)- COVERED IN BLOOD.
Oh, no.
Snape walked slowly, fear like a ball of molten lead in the pit of his stomach, to the edge of the landing, and looked down.
"Oh dear God, no! Harry, NO!"
He failed to realize, in his distress, that he had just used Harry's given name for the first time in his life.
He virtually hurled himself down the steps. Falling to his knees beside Harry, he checked for pulse and breathing, which thankfully were both present, though weak and irregular. Harry's chin and throat were scarlet with blood, the front of his robes stained and tacky with it, and a small puddle of blood was collecting beneath his head where he had smacked it hard on the bottom step.
Snape quickly concluded that the blood, except for what was pooling beneath Harry's head, appeared to have come from his mouth, and thus indicated severe internal injury. Muttering every swear word in his extensive vocabulary, he seized the front of Harry's robes both-handed and ripped them down the middle, exposing the boy's chest, which was one massive and ever-spreading purple-black bruise.
Briefly, he closed his eyes against the painful sight. Then, bending close to Harry, he spoke to him in a low, urgent voice. "I don't know how to do what you did for Miss Granger, Harry, so don't you die on me. That is NOT an option. Do you hear me? Do not die on me, Harry Potter!"
Standing, he pulled his wand from within his voluminous robes and magicked Harry onto a floating stretcher. As he raised the stretcher with a gesture from his wand, Harry groaned softly. Brow furrowed with effort, he lifted his right arm, which had been dangling limply over the edge of the stretcher, and laid it protectively across his mangled chest.
"Ow," he whispered for the second time, wincing and clenching his jaw.
Ow? Snape thought distractedly; look at the boy, the state he's in, and that's all he has to say for himself, Ow? He's rather similar to Draco in that way, isn't he? Yes- more like Draco than I've ever given him credit for, I think. Coming from Snape, who loved Draco like a son, though he rarely showed it outwardly, this was high praise indeed.
"Harry?" Snape said, leaning over him, dark eyes intent on the boy's pale, strained face. "Are you awake? If so, open your eyes."
Brilliantly green eyes blinked slowly open, focusing with difficulty on Snape's face which was (though he did not know it) haggard with worry. Harry wetted his lips with his tongue. "Professor?" he croaked.
Snape's eyes closed again momentarily as he released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Yes, Harry?"
"Hermione-?"
"She's fine. I'm-" he paused. He had almost said, I'm more concerned about you at the moment, but why risk alarming the boy? "I'm sure she'll be just fine," he repeated lamely.
"My- my wand."
Snape cast about on the ground and found the wand lying nearby. Picking it up, he slipped it gently into Harry's right hand, which was loosely curled on his chest.
"Thanks," Harry whispered. Then- "professor?"
"Yes?" Snape asked again.
"You call- called me Harry." The green eyes held an expression of mild inquisitiveness- but they appeared to be losing their focus. A dark red stain was spreading out like a halo on the white fabric of the stretcher beneath Harry's head.
"Listen, Potter," Snape growled, his fear mounting again as he began to climb the steps, the stretcher floating beside him, "I'll call you bloody Roxanne if you want me to, just stay awake now, okay? Potter- okay? POTTER!"
Harry's eyes had drifted shut again and he was no longer responding, though the faintest ghost of a smile lingered about his lips, suggesting that he had heard, and appreciated, Snape's last comment.
"Shit," Snape breathed; "shit, Potter, hold on."